I heard children singing this morning.
The sun had not yet even grown full.
Grass wet with dew.
The scent of the wet grass.
A red glow in the East.
Red like old gold in a brass ring.
I could not see the children.
Only the black silhouette of acacias
And the shadowed bodies of giraffes moving between them,
The red and black horizon and golden clouds.
But, their song was real.
It was honest.