Come to a place each morning
before the world begins,
while sleeping dogs still lie
and the cats are somewhere, breathing.
Outside the sound of rubber on tar
ebbs and flows, comes and goes
in waves, far from any ocean.
Off and on, unidentified birds
tweet into the absence of language.
No human voice yet, except those
faintly recalled from dreams
now silencing into thought.
There is nothing to do or be.
There is only the here, the now.
Do not fail to come,
and it will be revealed:
the what, the how.

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