One hundred and seventy of us yoga students would rise before dawn and make our way up the hill, down the hill, over the splashing dam, and around the western edge of the reflecting lake.
Crickets chirped, and tiny fish leapt out of the water. The palm trees overhead were lush, heavy, and alive, watching us wake up.
We would eventually make our way to the long stone wall that curved around the quiet water. There, we would roll out our mats and look up, watching as dawn crept into the sky.
Eventually, our meditation was broken by the sound of singing and drums, tambourines and clapping. Our mornings always began with music.
And here, a poem inspired by those mornings.
The crescent moon
A sliver of silver
In the blushing dawn sky
Birds chirp in the trees
And mythical alligators
Swim beneath still lake waters
In the jungle
An invisible saint
Walks barefoot through the trees
The sun rises
Stroking the sky
Creating the soft pink morning
Someone picks up a drum
And then a tambourine
Suddenly the morning is filled with music