a study in sunrises

if you stare at the sun too long, you can't see anything else even when you look away.

this morning I took up a rather conspicuous place on top of the dusty red picnic table in our back yard. I wished I could've climbed onto the roof (less conspicuous? perhaps not...) so I could see the jagged horizon and its great curving backdrop of heaven more clearly. as it was, from the picnic table I commanded a fair enough view beyond the bushes and trees. Venus was up there to my right, blinking lazily every so often. I guessed at the names of the broken constellations and waited, imagining the rush I might get if I could actually feel the earth spinning. a bright but delicate orange, like the petals of a june lily, was slowly pulling all of the dark out of the sky, fading with it into a smooth creamy peach. for a long stretch of morning the mountains were haloed with the deepest white gold and the rest of the sky flattened itself into a very sturdy pale blue. there was plenty of time for me to notice the carpet of dew on the grass, the dark pink of the roses against the wall, and the birds.

the light began to break the stark shadow of the mountains gently, diffusing the gray with soft shimmery fingers. at 7:28, in a sudden surge of sharp, brilliant white, an entire chunk of the horizon disappeared behind the cool flames of sunrise. those impossibly fine, intangible rays stretched and sparkled, coaxing shadows out of the trees. within moments our brightest, closest star was fully awake and staring out over the whole valley.

7:00 is not so dreadfully early to wake up. and the winter will keep pushing it later and later, anyway. there are one hundred and thirteen days left of the year and even more until springtime. so tomorrow I'll remember my camera and begin a ritual of recording to last a whole season of sunrises.