Swallows announce the end of yesterday. The morning girl awakens to their song. Her crayola sunrise paints over the gray of fading night to dawn a bright sarong, a flower-sprinkled emerald dress that stretches to the horizon’s hem and ripples in a warm wind’s caress: A playground for the cherubim. “Oh, Uncle Moon, please play with me, while the day’s still shining bright?” “I’m so tired but I’ll try Sweetpea.” And the moon missed work that night.