The quiet morning hours are my favorite, before most humans began moving about their bustley days, when the sound of tires whirring against the pavement are sparse and distant, and the palette of stars prepares to yield the field for the sun’s watch.
Leon, faithful canine companion, and I strolled softly through the grass, inhaling the sleepy sights and sounds and smells of the vanishing night.
It was temperate this morning with temperatures in the mid-fifties. The stars lost their luster behind a thin veil of cloud, but a thin lunar crescent clung to the gnarled chiaroscuro branches of a stately trees across the street like the fabled cradle. A handsbreadth north of this rocking watcher, the sun’s prow pushed a pink wake of dawn streaming into the cloudscape.
The earth began to gently quake and beyond neat rows of simple homes a mournful wail wafted toward me with rumbling building a crescendo as the locomotive passed northward.
The trees slowly came alive with strains of morning song from the warblers waking and flitting branch to branch. The notes rang behind us, before us, beside us, surrounding us with myriad avian arias blending together in a glorious salute to the sun.
There was nothing to do but sigh and say, “It’s great to be alive.”