Summer Morning

It's a far different world at five o'clock in the morning than it is a 6 a.m.  This is the summer hour where night and day converge.  At 5 o'clock the chicks are sleeping not cheeping.  The rabbits are still and the chickens are just barely stirring in their coop.  The cats are all out in the night world, and the cars are all resting in garages and yards instead of rumbling down roads.

At 5 o'clock on a summer morning when the great expanse of sky blends from a sliver of pale yellow behind the mountains to a thick swath of dark gray overhead, the only sounds are the leaves brushing against the wind and the cicadas carrying on their concert.

There are no worries in the five o'clock world, no troubles yet, or cares.  It is a stillness beyond the absence of movement and noise, it is a stillness of the soul, a world momentarily at peace with itself and with me.

If I only had one more morning on this earth, one more sunrise to see, I wouldn't wish myself to the far away shores of Portbou or Maya Bay.  I would wish to be right here on a sleepy cool morning in late summer to see the thin sunlight turn to glorious bars of gold.   

I would watch silent five 'clock turn into boisterous six a.m. the moment the old rooster crows and everything stirs to life again.  The chicks start their cheeping and the cats gather at the back door to sing for breakfast. The rabbits stretch their legs then dash.  Cars creep down dirt roads then buzz down the highway and the cicadas retire. Yes, troubles return, and busyness too, but the beauty of the world outshines the cares in this tapestry of time and nature.

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