I stretch, immersed in the scent of dew and fresh day, summer-new and hale, the scent of clarity and rebirth. Everything is opening to light. On the horizon, mauves and butterscotches bleed from the retreating darkness, lilacs and oranges seep like watercolors from the ascending furnace of the sun, and the pastel origins of an azure future gather in number across the sky.

Somewhere, early, a brushcutter's whine splits the peace; a bullfrog's urgent call to mate begins, and beneath it all, the original drone instruments, the honeybees, hum the day into being, orbiting the dandelions and the clover, small moons of industry.

An ancestral communion takes place and the body tunes in as a fork to the resonating world, an intimate ear to the atom in everything. Cleansing the heart, a grounding voice speaks from the inner realm with the benevolence of a god, and I am free to be a man, free to be a miracle once more, free to surrender, free to be part of the illumination that everything submits to.

Love says, simply: Come out of yourself. Be a fire.