Gradually, imperceptibly, the edges of the horizon gain light - eastward, to be sure, but even in the recesses to the north the hint of a glow. It’s still dark, but my body moreso than my eyes perceives the change. Soon I will be able to make out the form of the landing plane in the distance, not simply its blinking light. Soon, the stars overhead will dissolve into the blue of the morning sky. Soon the green of the trees will swell the details of the branches and leaves beyond the current outlined silhouette. And just now, Dwayne, the rooster, announced that he, too, is aware of dawn’s approach.
Last week the temperatures hovered around 100, and next week the prediction is a return to more of the same sweltering climatic malaise. But this week days will be mild and the darkness almost chilly. I draw my robe more closely around my shoulders and savor the rejuvenating cool.
Reviewing the calendar, I confirm that there is no schedule to keep within the hours of this day, just the rhythms of the farmstead to honor. There is harvesting and groundskeeping and preserving. There are bees to tend and chickens to feed, eggs to gather and music to make and perhaps, when day is done, a fire to build in the pit.
But for now there is the music of the night to hear, and the crescendoing morning. And the dawn to celebrate. Which might just be the most important work of the day.
The chair rocks gently. I breathe slowly, and deep. And color teases the horizon.
Good morning.
Good, indeed.
