The sun is not quite ready to come up

The world is black

I hear the ocean out my window

I cannot see it

I trust the sound

It is soft, rolling, waning

Not tumultuous

Not violent

Just lazy, constant

The birds aren’t up yet

Except the one lone rooster

Somewhere

Breaking the quiet

The neighbors sleep

My husband makes old man noises

As he rustles about

The cat forages for food

His full bowl unsatisfactory

I type lonely words onto a blank screen

The joy of unseen things

And poetry