Through the open window,
The breeze moves slow,
And the birds they sing their chorus.

Their are orchestras,
Refining their songs,
For the steadily cresting sun.

Ever so softly,
You can see them now,
Peeking through the branches.

Little streams,
Of golden amber light,
Resting tenderly on your cheek.

Now that song resounds,
Ascending in volume,
Bearing the old yet joyous news.

Once again,
Just as before,
The morn’ casts light into the shadow.

Despite the night,
Despite the sorrow,
There’s always hope with every dawn.

-Taylor Glenn Pritchard

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