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Here's a tidal marsh. It rises quicker than an Irish temper. This sunrise was announced by birdsong and water burbles which sounded nothing like a Debussey tone poem. Nope, the meter was odd, and the notes discordant. I imagine that the fuss is an aquired taste to sleepers behind those windows.
There's nothing still about a seacoast morning. Water birds seem as grumpy about daybreak jostling their sleep as me. Up the coast a block or so, a timber mill's already sprung to life, its saws and claw trucks stirring additional whines and grumbles into the thickening sound stew. But those reeds and the colors seem to compensate. There are those who love early mornings. I'm not one of them.