Morning. Rowan’s face sparkling with the light gushing from the canyon bends. He tears out of his blanket, a wild man from the straight jacket. He’s right to be excited. As we dance on plastic floor, I go still. He who owns the gold, she’d say, the sun is our friend. I remember my grandmother. Call her Lala. She passed me the joy of the morning. A stranger passes by, we exchange the saying. Morning. On this one, I’m told she’s now passing. I cut off my music to hear the mountain. A bird chorus flutters down from high grass. She taught me to sing to the dawn. Good morning, life.