Light is returning, so I stand by my window in the early morning when the birds are singing to moonlight, and the sky is not dark, not bright, but somewhere in-between. The whole world is blue and shining, and I can feel dawn creeping closer, closer. It comes quickly now, so I grasp this moment with both hands, a moment of magic, two worlds intersecting, when standing by my window is standing between night and day. And I can see the trees, the lake, the mountains slip into brightness.
It’s strange how when the sky is no longer blue, but white, a touch of gold on the horizon, the birds fall silent. It’s as though they were only singing to wake the sun, or call down the moon. There is a stretch of quiet around sunrise, and then the day starts, the magic breaks and all is bright and normal again. The birds are just birds, happy song filled things, of air and feathers, and not mystical beings of the night, of the in-between, singing through dimensions.