A week ago we watched the amber sphere of the sun slide silently from the deep Atlantic Ocean. Brown pelicans and various seagulls and terns tested the mild morning breeze, gliding along the tops of the waves. Some would plunge into the water pursuing breakfast and a new day of diving and feeding in the waves. For us it was also the beginning of a day by the sea; also pursuing some fish in our own way, and also diving into the waves and swimming into a new day.
Today, upon an early morning jog down another type of beach, one that is narrow and covered with class five Road gravel, I inhale the eerie calls of our local loons as they fly to their daily pursuits. The sun has clawed its way past prairie grass and corn fields, illuminating the green and shining leaves of cottonwood trees and melding the various shades of green into its first light. Here too, the beginnings of a day, although much different from the day on the Atlantic coast.
Wherever we go, the sunrise is a beginning, the perfect demarcation between night and day. It holds the promise of work or play; it offers the maximum time to accomplish either. There is promise in a sunrise, and hope. It’s a pity to miss sunrises. A lot of them are slept through. People miss the time of maximum hope, the offer of the longest time to accomplish the day.