Morning

The first trace of day appears on the horizon, a dim, surreal pink conflating with the dark blues of the atmosphere, breeding an ephemeral tinge of beauty. A low-hanging cloud begins to glow a slowly brightening red, then orange, from its edges to its heart, and a white-throated sparrow awakens from his slumber, whistling his encrypted, mellifluous song from the bowed branch of a lone birch. An owl and a possum yawn sleepily.

The dampness of the night air descends upon the earth, covering the grass and bushes and trees with an ebullient blanket, a skin of a billion water droplets, soon to evaporate under the heat of the rapidly yellowing sun as it continues its desultory climb up the face of the sky. The mist rises and provides cover for the last of the furtive creatures whose boldness dissipates along with their protective cloak of darkness.

Finally the sun rises high enough to warm and energize the entire landscape, quickly dispersing the mist and long shadows it had previously created. And so another day begins.

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