There is a time of day I love, that I rarely see. The onset of darkness means nothing to me. Yes it is morning, the best time to be free.
Many of my best memories are framed by sunrise. One of those is the subject of this post and the reason for the lines above.
Mostly perfect with its deep first light glow, black silhouettes define the horizon as if the sky were cut free from the Earth. The manicured edge reveals all that existed before night trimmed it away. The trees are most obvious and their limb to limb splits. With exponential fray toward the limits of canopies, the planet’s veined inner workings appear to the eye as an unforeseen hand placed upon light. It is magic beyond magicians with truth denied astronomers; no tricks up the sleeve and no formula for understanding.
Purity defined, a clean slate is morning delivered; each day a new life for the living; the movie version of the book that has yet to be written. The Earth is my prison and my pen has wings.
A brisk walk of intent implies a fleeting chance. My escape from this place lies in the dark and I have little time. My secret is out.
Warm pools of air pass over my senses. “I am here”, they say; the sprites of sunrise. “Flowers and fescue come 'round to lift your soul”. The planet’s exhale expresses the unseen; its fragrance a reminder that I should return.
Like horse to a hitch, the ship stirs with tension released from the rope; dew drums on the canvas and my leather it crunches. Inside the cockpit goggles fog from my breath; the craft shakes under power; a mind stirs.
With a vector of color against a fresh new sky, a two-dimension world is about to turn three. My wings shall make it so; something the avians know. It is why they sing the chorus of morning.