there is that song about morning having broken … i always think – into the bedroom. with the evilest of intentions, totally bent on wreaking havoc and mayhem (i wonder why those two are mentioned together, but i will not, as Dickens says, destroy the idiom) – or on conquest.
and then, yawning like my jaw joints would crack, i look out of the window.
and there is his one
looking ruffled, dishevelled even, just the way i feel. probably hungry, too… but i will know that after i’ve had some coffee.
so, it is not the morning lark. it is the morning crow that survives the day.
