Spring awakened me early this morning in the sweet voice of atiny bird who perched at my window for this rare serenade. I dared not stir to take a peek for fear that it would take flight and end its eloquent song. I suppose if I knew more about ornithology, its voice would be familiar to me, yet knowing neither the color of its feathers nor the width of its wingspan, it gave me a most priceless gift: an enchanted morning. I carried it in my heart the whole day. Even now in the silence of the night hours, it sings to me. Yes. Tea leaves keep resurfacing as the days of mundane certainty dwindle to a close. I draw a trusted cup of my most favorite brew, Lapsang Souchoung, and breathe in its smokey essence before letting just a bit rest on the tip of the tongue, like testing a fine wine. Hovering in the world of ‘twixt and ‘tween, my dreams pour out onto my pillow at daybreak in playful disarray. Perhaps I shall clothe myself in the silver one today with the opaline clasps as fragile as the reflection of the new moon upon a silent pool of water. And if it cracks? I shall not worry myself about that for the wardrobe is full of sturdier clothes made for travelling and flying at leisure. Or perhaps I shall wear nothing at all and let the colors of daybreak lend me their jeweled shades to hide my vulnerability in open spaces. The cup is half done and some leaves are already clinging to the place where my mouth touched the rim and from there make a ghostly path into the still-hidden heart of the matter. I examine the color of the teacup. I feel the shape of its bowl in my hand and the warmth of its curved bottom. Everything is still within. The milk has stopped swirling. I let the taste linger without breaking the spell of this perfect moment in which all is in sync and simply is. I drink the last drops and throw the cup against the wall, letting the mystery keep its own counsel in the shards on the floor.