Starr Goode AUBADE After the dark disturbances of night, a morning miracle: bird songs herald the first cold gleam of dawn. Across the tree tops, mourning doves are calling. Other little birds, twittering, pick up and expand the theme. A symphony composes itself, as full a sound as can be heard in this awakening world. Then a soft breeze so sensual it makes a body feel immortal. Like when my cat last year ran out, after a winter’s sick enclosure, into the early sun and rolled himself from side to side in bliss. Morning, Morning, I am alive.