In the silence of the early morning,
a soft wash of sound was in the air,
the murmurs of far away movement,
a train, a plane, a truck.
A wash that would soon disappear
with the chirping of birds,
the rustle of chipmunks,
the flutter of oak leaves,
the mourning doves overlaid across the lake.
All soft brush strokes of a world at peace.
Full of the hope of a new day.
Waiting for the sound of trumpets,
muted in the bay.