Spun Under

Use your lowest voice and say, dawn is spinning. This tests your word, inside the act of being on the grey tilled field, your friend of time. The moonish crops feature greener than mayhem starts, and figure to survive. You throw birds to pinkish points, saying song as metre, and the day begins. You have begun before. Earlier mornings were drenched in the unsettling, spiced by venture and out you went (familiar ode). Throngs of colour met you, tied to birds and the ramble of critters far away. Your lowest voice seems perfect, quiet, only a point of interest. Interest makes morning. Your wish invents a day. You distance day from thought, fields are green, skies blue, and when the sun explodes, more arrives. More of something if not nothing. Nothing is great, as inverted something. Something is where we place the tides, and watch. Watch the change in everything, into the morning that came after night. Debate some virtue of being in this word, that word, even other words, broached as units joined in some cause. The cause came brightly to this morning, then faded out of ken. A new morning accurately dawned. This brilliant exegesis strains the edges of grey, yet we cherish the inkling and skid. See, you stopped, with your lowest voice, to say just the same something in this place in time. Namely dawn, spinning, and you were awake.