Already, the light high enough to mean morning. Redwings return, balance on the tips of saplings and shrubs, woven in the barb-wire. the damp hollow notes of the mourning doves. The slow tick of rain. The light already high enough to shadow the hillside, the arcs of blackberry canes, white-blue from winter, the skein of morning glory vines, dried, torn by wind. The sheer cut ledge of limestone. The slow rain slowing. The day coming down hard upon us. The mica in the outcropping giving back what light it can hold. Like the shimmer of redwings. Like the wind-shrugged pines. Then the rain gives up. Even the rain turns to light.