Ah, the elegance of a winter sunrise.
She sends out her scout, one Morning Star, who deems that night is indeed departing.
Once Her Majesty is notified, the unrolling of Day begins.
Even in the dark, you can hear it coming.
Face east and wait.
A Great Horned Owl sounds out, full and round as a drum roll.
That peculiar moment has arrived that is unlike any other, when it is neither night nor day, and time cannot be measured.
And maybe you’re wishing you were still sound asleep.
Nonetheless, she continues her approach with great weight and bearing.
Moving towards us at a queenly pace.
Benevolent and generous.
The new Day crests the horizon, full of grace.
And greets us no matter who we are or what we’ve done (or not done).
Coming ever forward towards us, and for us.
Whether we’re awake or not.
Bringing the gift of absolute newness.
As her rapturous pink crowns the land, an array of birds sound their salute and the sky gathers its blue.
Night bows out as morning takes the stage.
It doesn’t matter if we’re still tucked in our beds.
She’ll find us.
It doesn’t matter if we notice or not.
Her light unfurls across the frosty countryside embracing everything in its path.
No one is left out.
This gift of a new day is given freely to everybody.
Day after day after day.
Gift after gift.
Sometimes it’s harder to receive than give.
What do we do with it?
Look it in the mouth?
Open it with glee?
Shove it aside?
Take it for granted?
Day fills each molecule of air with its abundant energy.
Amazing this doesn’t make the headlines of newspapers around the world:
“BRAND NEW DAY ARRIVES IN FULL SPLENDOR. Millions turn out to greet the
arrival of this incomparable phenomenon.”
Instead, we read about gloom and doom.
Then there are those who never miss a sunrise.And others who rarely see the sun come up.
Many don’t care one way or the other.
Some of us mark things on calendars from The Commercial Bank or Mason Gas Company.
Small but important things like, “Hard freeze. Get tires rotated.”
Or “29 degrees. New calf.”
Or we jot them in a journal we bought at Benjie’s or Hinckley’s.
Maybe paragraphs or pages about this and that.
Our days duly noted.
Our time spent.
Our lives lived.
From one sunrise to another.
Renee Walker is a poet, writer, and real estate broker on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster.