Morning

The studio window faces east. Every morning, if possible, I am up before sunrise, coffee in hand, reading or watching something on the computer, planning my day. I turn away from these activities to watch the sunrise.

Every morning is different. At times, I am up so early the street lamp is still on. Some mornings it is a sharp light against a dark sky. Other mornings, as of late, it is softened by the fog that has covered the valley. As the sun ascends, the fog may stay or go, and the light may be soft and golden, violet, or on a clear morning, the spectrum of colors. At times, if there are clouds, they can be lit with gold and pink.

Missing a morning’s beginnings seldom happens. To me, it is always an adventure in color and light, and this in turn makes me ponder some weird thing.

I am always glad to see the dawn – to hear the first birds – to see the birds perch on the redbud outside my window, or see the crows hopping on the eaves. It is always new and different, full of potential and hope.

This morning was no different. What was different is I went into the living room to open the shutters. A flitter to my right, and through the slats of the shutter, on the fig tree, a little bird, yellowish on the breast, was popping around, limb to leaf, eating figs or bugs. On the lawn, a crow was poking and prodding for bugs. He watched my movements a bit, as did the small bird in the tree, but neither flew away.

Mornings are, for now, eternal. When I am long gone, they will continue. Savoring the dawn is a wonderful way to begin any day.