The cry of a flock of geese came down from the sky. When I raised my head to find where it came from, black dots were scattered quietly across a gray-white sky. Thinking that those small dots were crying, I was glad the morning had not yet come. A bird settled on the power line. It, too, had not yet folded its wings.
The dawn wind was just seeping in through the gap of a window whose light hadn't yet gone out. Carried on that breeze, the cry of wild geese brushed overhead and passed.