The sun has come up.
She is sleeping. Her head on the pillow; a soft copper cloud.
There are birds singing in the morning light, in hushed tones; a whisper of whistles.
The rabbits are gathered on the lawn, pushing their noses through the Creeping Charlie.
Foraging, at the dawn; the metal scrappers push carts down the alley, in a jangle and clattering song.