The hours of days

The hours of days are not all alike; when I open my eyes and wake to a new day’s asks, at first I want to fill its moments with the thrum of industry; move them like horses to rack, like packs to hunt, like hammers towards strike. And I want to be the hand that takes this day in its calloused grip and does with it what practiced hands do with things.

Then, like what the advent of deliberate birds does to dark trees in morning’s half lights, little by little, I am populated by a swarm of intent, and flighted moments bend me to their sway. Before long my steeds are gone, my dogs turned wild, my smithy run cold and I am the waiting thing this day will take into its skilful hands to do with it as it does.