Like a star at night, I spend a moment on the first bird I see in the morning. Today it was a robin sitting in dead piñon as the sun came up. Being a sensible 73-year-old, I dismissed the anthropomorphic tendency to think the bird was doing the same thing as I, observing the glory of dawn. I could only guess what the bird was up to, probably having something to do with food or a mate. But it did seem factual and fair game to recognize the robin as one small bird in the universe, facing the sunrise from the branches of a dead tree.

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