Not in some stone circle, nor upon a mountaintop, but in a back garden, to the rear of a block of houses. A sacred square of confederacy. In each house the occupants are sealed in their tombs of un-knowing. On the roof of many, a totem bird sings, a blackbird, a starling, or a sparrow. Harbingers of light, stealing a march on everybody, except the sold out hippy in a cosmos of community.
A waning, sharp-edged moon peeks through the lightening clouds. Crows fly east, the seeking Magi. More-robins, swifts, gulls, cry out for other. A bat flies one final sortie before passing on the baton. Trees stand still in stupor.
Out of place, out of sight, girls shriek out from a passing car. A raiding hen party, scrambling at dawn. Implausibly, the birds sing louder, in a claim of ownership, as the day arrives fully, drowning in coffee.