Waking up before sunrise has its uses.
For one thing, the house is quiet. When one is the mother of small children, silence is one of the greatest luxuries EVER. I can read, or write, or just, you know, stare out the window and see this:
I wanted to catch more, but my sons woke early. Dammit.
Last night Bo begrudgingly agreed to wake up in time to handle the kids so I could go out and photograph the sunrise elsewhere. Out of town, among the fields, with a rustic barn, or maybe a bird. It sounded like the perfect piece of my life to share here–the glory of morning as it unfolds, the last minutes of silence in the world. (That, and I’m experiencing bad writer’s block on a nonfic piece, but anyway.)
So I go out. And find–
–power lines. Curses!
The parks I hoped to utilize were closed off due to snow. I drove out of town, into town and out again, losing pre-dawn light as I tried to find one blessed stretch without those accursed power lines.
Fine. I had to accept the power lines. But what about clouds? The sunrise earlier this week unleashed such incredible colors on the sky. The previous day was all cloud cover. Where the hell’s my painted sky?
Honestly? I chewed God out a bit.
Yet I stayed. The trees, I think–they stood as living shadows against the light as it slowly seeped into my space.
No clouds to reflect colors, but the colors came, nonetheless.
I went back to my car to warm my fingers, and nearly missed it:
It occurred to me as I stood, watched, pressed buttons: I had never watched a sunrise before.
Color filled the expanse above my head and under my feet.
But then, the trees looked like trees again. Cars found my patch of countryside and wouldn’t leave it alone. The world insisted I had to press on, return to reality and all its obligations.
Blondie needed a ride to school, anyway.