Another Dawn

The birds come first, did you know that? As the clock ticks off the minutes of the A.M. hours, the first signs of morning are the birds. The locusts end their shift several hours before the birds go on duty, all while it still looks like night outside. It is surreal to be looking at the blackest sky, darkness of night, yet hear the birds discussing the coming activities of their day.

When the light begins, it is the dimmest of things. Although ribbons of pink and violet appear in the eastern sky, the rest of it is dull, hesitant. It is as though the rest of the world is slow to wake, reluctant to begin. But it does. As pink, violet, and various blues gradually creep out towards the west, you see the main attraction begin on the eastern horizon. Orange, then yellow, then the edge of the orb.

I've watched this transition of worlds, from the depth of night to the brightness of day, so many times and thought it the apex of serenity. A little piece of magic that I'm so sure I share with very few. But what of the rest?

Dawn arrives, the magic is over, the rest of the world joins the birds and me in the arrival of another day. The children wake, the chores are waiting, the drudgery begins. I had always felt a resentment at the intrusion, but now I find myself reconsidering this.

What if I weren't permitted another dawn? If I weren't allowed to get to the first bird of the day? Did I catch and hold onto the magic of a groggy child with fluffy hair shuffling to my room? Did I see the wonder of children playing in the field? Did I savor the warm kiss my husband gave me before leaving for work? Did I notice the amazement of the flowers beside the house as they turned their heads to follow the westbound sun?

I need to remember to touch the tree to caress the bark, and breath deep the fresh scent of milo. I need to memorize the tunes my daughter hums when she thinks nobody is listening.

I need to admire the men my sons are becoming, and the women my daughters will be. And cherish each moment as if it were my last, because I never know when it might be.