The birdsong sounded unreal,
a hotel lobby recording 
in the hedge 
in the 6 am darkness 
in the snow falling down 
from the end of January sky.

And all the people 
who had paved the way for us
- the true early birds - 
left their impressions,
marching in a neat line 
down the middle of the path.

Is it those who fear solitude 
that follow the already made tracks, 
I wondered,
as I avoided stepping on someone else’s shoe print. 

And turning around,
behind me,
I saw a friend,
glowing her solitary light through the hazy cloud,
like a soft beam of good morning.