I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn Doth with his lofty and shrill sounding throat Awake the god of day, and at his warning Whether in sea or fires in earth or air Th’extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine.

Who is this god of day?
Does he hang with Phoebus Apollo
Or Ra in Egypt?
I picture him as bright and sunny,
Rubbing his godly great eyes
As the rooster crows,
Ready to rule over his dominion.
What does he do if he sees the dark spirits
Hanging around after a good night’s haunting?
Does he chase them into corners?
Reduce them to ash?
Make them writhe in agony of the brightness of the morning?
Luckily, it probably takes a little while
for the god of morning to roll over
the lip of his bed
into the full force of his power.
The tardy spirit may have a moment or two
To secret himself into the vanishing darkness.

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