I was up early this morning. It's something I do now.
I've learned to love the quiet of the morning,
when the dog and cats are fed and watered
and are content to leave me to my thoughts.
This morning, I sat in my little computer nook
on the second floor, reading emails
and catching up on blog posts
while watching the sky outside my window
turn red-violet, then amethyst.
It finally settled into a faint pink near the ground
that graduated through the lavender range over to blue,
growing faintly more intense as I looked up-up-up,
but still a soft, soft powdery blue of a still morning,
just after sunrise.
I should have grabbed the camera early on,
gone outside in the 30-something temperature
and taken a photo to show you
the glory of Mother Nature's paintbox.
But I didn't -- I knew that by the time
I pulled jeans on under my nightgown
so I wouldn't scandalize
my very-Republican neighbors
if they happened to glance up to my deck,
by the time I tucked my toes into some shoes
and slipped out the back door,
the early morning splendor would have faded like a memory
to a from vivid hues to a faint blue
tending toward the gray end of its range,
and a yellow to the east so faint
it might as well be white.
I waited a few extra minutes
and everything changed,
everything muted to the colors you see here.
I guess there's a little pink left.
And you can see the carpet of frost
spread out across the expanse of grass.
I waited because I didn't want to miss
the eagle who flies between my house
and my neighbor's each morning
about this time, on his way to the pond.
He always makes a point of dipping his beak
and showing me his snow white head.
He's close enough that I can see
the yellow rings in his eyes.
I wonder what he thinks,
as he watches me watching him.
That's the magic of my morning.
I wish you magic, too.