Res Miranda

Even when he is late to rise, you could never describe the sun as groggy. He is too bright, too cheerful, (too splendid!) the minute he stretches, clambers out from under the rumpled horizon, strides to the window and hurls wide the brilliant curtainous clouds,

and stands, hands on hips, chest out, and smiles warmly at the shivering morning (who blushes so prettily whenever they meet)

and shouts greetings down to the moon, who is hurrying his way home from the night shift with glad feet,

and ascends the staircase of his apartment in the mountains with confidence

and gulps down a quick breakfast of hastily buttered toast and a half full glass of orange juice, which is full of pulp today, though sometimes he buys it without pulp, even though it doesn't matter, really - he likes it both ways -

and turns out every light when he leaves, as instructed by the Landlord,

but there is a certain sleepy charm to his waking routines that the disgruntled winter grasses fail to appreciate.

"Cold, cold, cold!" they grumble, and "At last the Sun is up."