Dawn – The finest hour
No matter how wakeful or troubled the night, there is always reassurance and joy in the morning. I mean, of course, after the first horrible wrench of getting myself out of the subliminal state and on my feet.
Yes, I hate to get out of bed but once I do, the rewards are worth the struggle. There’s a softness to the early morning that cannot be put into words and i feel like Alice in Wonderland as she stepped through the mirror into a new world. That’s what early morning is like. Before anyone starts moving and breaks the spell.
I pour myself a quick cup and then step outside, for one must make the commitment and be outside for the magic to work. I go quietly, barefoot and nine-times-out-of-ten still in my night shift. I feel like an intruder on that world, so near my door, but at dawn it’s not mine, and go as quietly as possible.
The other morning I saw two pheasants, a male and his mate, strolling right across the street, and hardly daring to breath, I watched in delight. During the day I hear, but seldom see them, but at that hour, they had no fear, for the world, including the street was theirs.
The backyard was alive. I toss bird seed in sheltered nooks and the birds spread the word and come. There are the shy quail, greedy magpies, friendly sparrows, wild canaries, robins, doves, starlings, and some I don’t know, but they know my yard.
And, to me, the strange thing, is that if I sit still, they don’t see me. They are so secure at this hour of the morn that they don’t look for anything or anyone to fear.
Dogs and cats I never see at other times, go busily through my yard, so intent on their business they, too, pay no attention, not only to me, but to the birds, and the birds do not shy away from them. Odd, I can’t figure that one out.
There’s a perfume to the air that I would recognize as ‘dawn’ no matter where I should find it. The sky can be overcast, clear, cold or sultry, but the aroma is there and I’d like to bottle it. I’d name it “Early Dawn” and city folk would buy it by the gallon as it awakened within them, a deep almost painful response to an aroma they, in some long ago rural lifetime, had once known.
I see large flights of birds going overhead, speeding to get to feeding or mating grounds before the heat of the day arrives. I’m reminded that the sky is a great highway for birds of all species, and butterflies. too. They travel their familiar routes just as I do on my way to where I go, and I get envious of the fisher folk on our coastal areas who are just as aware of the highways in the oceans that the fish and whales all follow.
Sometimes I get in my car and drive around in the early dawn. I’d ‘die’ if I had to stop for some reason, and be found in my night shift, but, what the heck, that’s Ethel. Weird.
The world is a different place at the various hours of the day, with changes as abrupt as the seasonal ones, and each quickly recognized. Dusk, to me, is the Angelus . . . . ”the end of a weary day when all things come home at eventide” and it’s almost with tears that I recognize the feeling, and find it a bit sad, but yet wonderful.
Daytime is when the business of the world sets a frantic and busy pace. And Dawn is a far cry from the hectic flash/flash/neon/noisy/blare/honk of the midnight hour that was here but a few hours before.
The early hours are a time of birth. The time when everything I ever dream of is still possible. The time when all I ever want is already mine. Yeah, you know the feeling . . . . I hope. And if not . . . seek it.
I catch the sun coming up over the Wasatch Mountains and know that I could give up much in this world and still be happy, but one of the last things I would ever want to give up is my Window to the World, and Dawn, to me, is its Finest Hour.