“The sunsets over the Mississippi valley are as beautiful as anywhere in the world. They say that the sunrises are also beautiful but I can’t attest to that” -Mark Twain (From: Life on the Mississippi)
“Arise. Arise while darkness still sleeps. Arise!”
It is dark outside and cold. The moon has fled the sky. Clouds play tag with the stars. But soft, approaching dawn lightens darkness. I want to see the sunrise from my aerie in the Garden house. There is preparation to be done. Fire in the wood stove must be rekindled. Last night’s slumbering embers awakened to cheat December’s chill. Water boils for tea. I’m ready.
Beyond the big picture window misty shades of green velvet ramble down the hillside caressing barely defined boulders that erupt randomly from the earth. Far below city lights twinkle in their own galaxy dimmed by impending majesty. Past the land the slate gray sea lies in repose, a sheet of unreflective glass. At the limit of vision lies an island; black, rugged, mysterious. Above that temperate isle the vault of heaven arks back overhead to me. Pearl gray whales glide over taffy pulled wisps bourne by the unseen wind that whistles just beyond my door and seeks to find me here.
To the east a pale yellow silently trumpets a fanfare to the sun. Sols first blessing brands the gray whale clouds a brilliant rose red radiating down upon the land. An old sea shanty tells it “Red skies at night, sailor’s delight. Red skies in the morning, sailor take warning.” It will rain soon.
Lost in thought the vista changes again. The radiant velvet grass glistens with dew. The rocks cast off their musty night cloak to dress themselves in subtle grays, greens and reds. The city has lost its nocturnal galaxy and awakens to itself. The endless ocean ripples in its own timeless undulation. Clouds shed their triumphant reds and are gray once more traveling at determined leisure. The sun vainly whispers through their filter. It is still cold out. A brisk wind plays across the land and the quivering oaks. The morning birds are silenced, their happy songs stilled but briefly. They will return, their hearts gladdened by day.
It is another morning at Windermere. There are things to do.
