As if it is morning all day

Photo used under Creative Commons by Algo

It’s Sunday morning. I was walking out to get my laptop so I could use it inside when I saw the Edgar Allen Poe sky: clouds forming a light V shape in the dark sky directly over the cabin, the moon sitting inside of it, the clouds moving through it, trees waving over it so their black branches hung and swayed in the glow. Very haunting. I opened the door and saw I’d left the heater on. I still debated. I’d been imagining myself curled up on the loveseat of the sunroom. But I went in the house, got my coffee, and came back. I swear, all you’ve got to do most days is get out the door.

The sky is mottled. Mainly midnight blue with poke-throughs of indigo and slate and powder and gunmetal -- all in one spot where the sun’s about to rise and the glow of the sun is floating up, so that a thin strip beneath the blue is golden. The sound of a barge horn carries from the river.

The good days and the bad days don’t feel any different out here in the morning. I can’t dredge up a thought of worry. I wonder…someday…will we all live as if it is morning all day? Face the day with wonder? And stillness? Watch the light come but not be afraid of the dark?

Do our passions – those hours/people/trees we love – restore us? Lend us sympathy? Let us see past the reflection to the actual lone leaf falling?

A train whistle blows three times. The blue sky has grown flat and uniform. The sun’s glow is pink.