In this dewdrop I see no permanence. In this dewdrop I see only the shattered gems of cavorting fairies, only the fog of Night’s breath. In this dewdrop I see no discerning quirk that eclipses its siblings, and in this dewdrop—this solitary orb of crystal—I see only the irrational dread of a blazing sun.
It captures the essence of only morning lulls. It captures the souls of only unwary ants. It captures the hearts of only lost Romantics, yet it has managed to capture my eye.
For as the radiant sunbeams streak across slumbering fields, this lonely dewdrop will consummate, in a winking pinprick of brilliance, the image of a perfect sunrise.