At first light of day, first bird call is a cardinal’s as he arrives from among slender slash pines. The trees’ high black crowns emerge against dawn’s cerulean, their roots swathed with ruby.

Across the lane, a dog barks, heralding first business to be done. Park ranger at the other end of the leash scratches first of many duties off his mental to-do list.

Above a clatter of crockery within the nearest bungalow, first work gets under way. A wife announces the hour to her husband; first human voice intrudes.

Rose pales to pearl along the upland horizon to the east; first white of day rises on bird wings into thinning blue. After a cold night, first details of day emerge: With red-headed urgency, woodpeckers hammer first blows.

First sun appears. Its heat stirs no wind, no clouds mask its face. Starlings begin to bustle and red-shouldered hawks are first in the forest to fly beyond the horizon. It will be mid-morning before the chill lifts. So black vultures, last to commence their rounds this day of firsts, sleep late.

Everglades light has come. I snuff the candle. A crow caws.

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