When I can’t sleep, sometimes Emily Dickinson comes to mind:

“Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?

And then, at the end, “Please to tell a little pilgrim/Where the place called morning lies.”

A place called morning: I imagine it gray and windswept, the land still scoured by night, a new day awakening from slumber, pulling itself together, splashing water on its face.

Or, I see it riding in on clouds of light, the most important guest at the ball. A bit overdressed, perhaps.

Or, I hear it first. Not this time of year, but in spring, when the early robin, that upstart, belts out his pre-dawn tune.

This time of year, mornings are black and still, a kingdom of stars and frost in the lamplight.