Not Yet Dawn

There are moments
in these early hours
when the air is new -
Not the second-hand exhalations
of commuters who are still abed
awaiting their alarms,
or combustion machines
still unignited and
tucked neatly in garages.

In the stillness of
not-yet dawn,
The rain politely
refrains from sound.
It comes softly
as a stealthy mist
and collects upon the leaves.
They cushion each drop’s descent
until the dew-laden trees,
gently deposit moist kisses
upon a slumbering earth.

Then the air lies
still and cool,
not rising in pungent waves,
not nudging empty wrappers
in gutters and alleyways.
Not yet provoked,
into heated arguments
by a sun still in hiding.

These moments are islands
in the stream of life.
Neutral ground,
where man and nature
agree to a cease-fire.
A brief treaty of peace,
before chaos stretches long arms,
and reaches for a cup of coffee.