Morning Sentence

Dawn cracks open the door
to the valley
lets the light leak in
to waken the cows
and the wild geese
she dusts off the mountain
and illuminates the cobwebs
that float through the treetops
and in her final task
before turning the work over to Day

sends the moon to bed.

I am late to my blog café Saturday morning, I couldn’t leave the hill. It is so beautiful. I woke in a bowl of vichyssoise so thick I knew Dawn had her work cut out for her. She is determined in her morning task, though, and doesn’t give up. Tomorrow she can be a sleepyhead, but today she will get the job done in a timely manner. Gradually the soup lightens, though it is no less opaque. Finally she gets the tiptop of the far hill dusted off, only to have it enveloped again as she blows off another one.

I head for my car reluctantly, but I don’t like to miss the quiet time at the coffee shop. Then with a shake of my head, I tell myself the coffee can wait, Dawn lingers for no one. I throw my bag into the car and turn back toward the valley side of the house. I have no clue what I am going to muse on in this weekly writing space anyway, and I don’t want to miss the fog sinking into the valley leaving me and the mountain high above the fray.

Sun is beginning to stream through the trees on the dark east side of the house, streaking obliquely through the fog highlighting the ferns and the fir branches where it hits them like featured actors on a dry ice stage. I round the house to the valley side to something I have never seen before: the sky is robin’s egg blue, the lower hills and valley are still obscured in fog, but for a slowly clearing veil that opens revealing the valley floor. It is as if Dawn blew a hole through the fog to let the valley dwellers know the day is coming, to hold tight. Just as my camera battery dies, she inhales and the hole closes back up. Later, when I look at the photos, I am reminded of the movie houses of my youth when the heavy velvet curtains parted and the movie began behind a sheer curtain that lifted to bring the picture into clarity.

I struggle to let the beauty speak for itself in the moment, not let my inability to capture it with my camera distract me from enjoying it. My mother says she has never seen a hole  in the fog either. I spend a few more minutes walking with her up the driveway. The chilly air is crisp and clean; just breathing is rapturous joy. Up the driveway, there is no sign of the fog. Once I get to town, there is no sign of the sky. I say a heartfelt thank you for the opportunity to live on the side of the hill. It will not always be so.

After our walk I make one more trip to the back side of the house. Everything is socked in again. I head down to town knowing that now Dawn will make quick work of her duty: one final blow from the belly into the diaphragm up through the throat and out her mouth in a silent ohm and she will pass the work on to the Day shift.

I made the right decision not to rush into Day. Dawn is deserving of attention and is, in fact, my favorite part of the 24-hour cycle. As I write this (on Saturday), I am aware that tomorrow will be different. The rains are returning for one thing. And Dawn won’t come until it’s time for Day. And Day will still be plugging on when I am ready for Twilight. I am not a fan of the early days of Time Change. But change happens, there is no stopping it. Dawn reminded me today not to let the moments and the experiences slip by without notice while I rush into the next one. We don’t get them back.