The day has not begun for people yet.
Yet the sun stretches,
sweeps the floor with his fingertips,
disturbs lazy dust motes that hang around the shelves.
He lets himself in through the ebony-framed window panes,
and lays himself down on the mahogany desk
smiling and soaking in the smell of history.
The sandalwood elephant, with a chip in its left tusk,
no doubt the result of some heady attempt at writing down his own epic tale,
is amused.
He converses with the sun through a staring contest for two,
and lets his mind wander through the silent, frozen paths
of the forest painted in oils.
He can hear his own tail swishing along in the warmth of the canvas memories
and the birds sing with sweet abandon.