Before the sun stirs the horizon, I walk alone in the liminal dark,
where time still clings to the night, and the world belongs to creatures whose presence is seldom seen.
Bowdaro, the coyote, stands sentinel in the half-light,
his eyes finding mine as if to question my purpose in this stolen hour.
What do you seek here, he seems to ask, in this realm not meant for you?
His form is a shadow against the thinning night, a reminder that the earth holds secrets in its bones,
secrets that do not yield easily to the tread of human feet.
And yet, I tread. And yet, I move forward.
The raccoons scurry past, their figures fleeting under the faint glow of lamps,
indifferent to my intrusion but hurried all the same.
Three young ones, not quite grown, brush the ground with quick, decisive movements,
as though knowing their time here is short, that the light will come and push them back to where shadows keep them safe.
I watch their backs as they vanish, their brief encounter with me not an acknowledgment but an escape.
This is not their hour either, but still, they move with the knowledge of its rules,
while I fumble in awe at the rhythm I can never quite join.
A crow calls from somewhere unseen, a sharp, ringing sound that cuts through the thinning dark,
and I feel the shift, the turning of the clock in the sky,
a signal that the sun will soon break the horizon, and with it, a flood of life I can never fully comprehend.
The crows herald the change as if they own the passage between night and day,
their voices marking the sky with a sound that belongs to both worlds.
They are messengers, but their message is not for me.
I only hear it because I am there, standing on the cusp of what is to come.
And with the light, the hawks arrive, two of them gliding into view like masters of the air.
They are watchful, their eyes fixed on the ground below,
and yet it is not prey they seek but something else—some unspoken order they uphold.
The snowy egrets, grazing in the grass, white against the green,
are untouched by the hawks’ gaze, though the distance between them narrows.
The hawks circle, and the egrets, unhurried, move only slightly faster,
as if to remind them that flight is unnecessary when peace is chosen.
I wonder at this—at the stillness that contains a hundred possibilities of movement,
but none of them violent, none of them realized in conflict.
The hawks could strike, but they don’t. The egrets could fly, but they stay.
They are bound by something unseen, a silent understanding of the sun’s first light.
And before the light fully breaks, the deer appear—
they, too, watch me, but their gaze is softer, more resigned.
They know that I do not belong here, but they do not resent me for it.
Their eyes, wide and dark, hold the weight of the dawn,
as though they are accustomed to seeing things in this hour that I cannot imagine.
Their movements are slow, deliberate,
as if each step is a meditation on the time that passes too quickly for me but just enough for them.
They, like Bodaro, like the raccoons, the crows, the hawks, are part of this world
where time bends differently, where the minutes stretch into something more ancient, more lasting.
I am alone, but not alone.
In this early hour, no other humans walk beside me; even the occasional jogger misses what I see.
They move quickly, their focus elsewhere, unaware of the life around them,
oblivious to the conversations happening in the spaces between their footsteps.
But I see. I hear. I feel the pull of the earth beneath me,
its silent, constant hum as it spins beneath the dawn,
and I know that I am the guest here, a visitor to this time and place where the rules are different,
where the animals see me but do not change their course.
I do not belong here, but still, I come.