Silhouette Matins

Sun's shoulders rise pink against the ridge. 
Owls glide toward feathered troves of small 
white bones. My daughter listens to the canticle 
 
of crickets, bright page of pictures on her lap, 
lower lip soft between her teeth. She's searching 
for a list of hidden things—slice of bread sketched
 
into a fish's scales, campfire scrawled inside 
the broad green belly of a bush. She circles each 
discovery, marking it found, as if finding 
 
were as easy as looking, as if the outline could 
define the thing itself, her fleeting silhouette 
traced on the back of the waking sky.