In Quiet Morning

I sit in the quiet of the morning,
And the breeze rustles
Through the undergrowth.
I sit in the quiet of the morning,
And I hear the tinkling of glass and ice.

Of ice and glass,
and glass and ice,
and ice and glass.
I sit in the quiet of the morning.

You might say I'm standing in my stirrups,
Feeling the horse revolve beneath me,
Feeling the patrols move past me,
Slowly in the darkness, I sit.

A lone flag rustles in the darkened breeze,
And reflections of parked, dark windows
Sparkle in the early light.

They are lonely,
Lit against the stars,

Fighting against the cold,
Holding, close against the night,

Words flow forth,
Strung together,

By oxygen and carbon,
and all the molecules,

And I sit, I sit,
in quiet mourning,