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.
what if I am visited by the thing that makes happy birds do what they do to dark trees in morning’s half lights? Will I be swayed to its intent, like trees to the stress of wind? Will I then find my steeds gone away; my dogs turned wild and my smithy run cold? Will I become the waiting thing this day takes into skilful hands to do with it as it ought?
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