Archive
09/25/10 - (1)
Notes on a Delayed Sunrise
Fourteen minutes before this dawn's 6:56 sunrise, The twilight sky is tinged in a wide band of pastel reddish-pink Against a wider striation of purple-black clouds. The red presence is reflected off the water, Not fifty feet east of my dock.
Behind me, at approximately three o'clock, in the welkin, Is the small wafer of near-full incandescent-ivory moon, Also reflected, just to the west of me.
All along the shoreline, Autumn's crazily mazed, colorful trees await the solar blaze That will let them burst into their own complete radiance.
Now, as the sun nears the saw-toothed horizon, Every cloud turns a more vibrant red-tinged pink.
Only the boisterous, back-and-forth-winging crows and I Witness this crepuscular spectacle, This daybreak exultation, this impending coronation. Otherwise, this breezeless 38-degree air, The entire outdoors, For miles and miles wider than wide, Is filled with an even wider silence.
And now, a mist clinging to the lake's undisturbed surface Whispers as it moves away from Bumble's Bay, In anticipation of the sun's grasping shafts, Which it knows are about to break over the trees behind it. It hasn't a chance.
Now, the eastern reds, pinks, purples, and blacks Have been joined by whites, creams, oranges, and golds.
And still, the fireball remains down below, Teasing, taunting me.
Though I've forgotten my wrist watch, on purpose, I sense that it must be at least five minutes after seven. It can't be much longer.
The mist has stalled in its tracks, Likely realizing it's been detected and will soon be obliterated.
I breathe in Saturday morning's pure, cool, fresh, pristine air, Breathe in and out, deeply. My lungs appreciate the sweet taste of nature's breath.
Still, at about eight after seven, by my internal clock, The sun has yet to breach the trees. Even the moon seems slightly surprised by the delay, Maybe even a tad impatient.
All at once, every hint of red tinge has dissolved. The sun is climbing, albeit hidden, yet, Behind a rose window of gold-stained-glass clouds.
The crows fill the silence; Then they don't; Now and then, they don't and do; Then they do and don't, again and again. I'm in serene harmony with their comforting cawing and croaking. It must be ten after seven, by now, And yet I remain at dock's end, Hoping to see the sun fully disclosed as a distinct entity — Sublime, circular, supreme — Knowing it can't be more than another few cosmic tocks Before it becomes day's sole justification for existence.
Finally, here it is! It, indeed, is immaculate, in its blinding rapture. It's 7:12 — I just know it — And it won't have its setting for another twelve hours.
Suddenly, I put my left hand on my nose And notice that both hand and nose are profoundly cold, But already, I can feel the chill warming to the sun's touch.
This will be a matchlessly exhilarating day, My last full day, here in the village of Lake Nebagamon, For however long from this past half-hour whenever might be.
09/25/10 - (1)
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