Oh, night writer, how I envy thee; with your ability to find words as the stars illuminate the sky. You've spent your day collecting: stories, phrases, moments. Wrapping them in the pages of your notebook as your day settles. I'm a morning writing. Though I try, my words don't rise with the moon. It seems I must carry them into my dreams, where they toss, grow, multiply. My song plays as the sun rises. Words find their way to the paper as the world awakens: the chickadee chirps, the robin sings, the finch flits about, as I tap away composing stories onto the page. There are days when I try be a writer like you, settling into the blackness of night, searching for words, only to find emptiness. I'm a morning writer, I require the light to find words as they hide,