There is a timeframe for magic in my yard. As the day is born, everything is limned in a radiant gold and green. It is shadowed in potential and eagerly cavorts with grand expectation along a well-worn path. It does not think about the afternoon, with it’s faded colors and too-bright sun. It doesn’t dwell on the tired sighs and creaking bones of the evening. And would look at you with a bemused expression, if you asked it about midnight and the day to come. It cannot live where it does not live. The promise of morning exists every day at the same time; in it’s own time.