Morning Song

When you sleep with the windows open and no shades drawn, morning comes right into the room as soon as it’s ready. The day starts with little regard for a clock. It’s light and time to get busy. The crows seem to wake up first then come the little songbirds followed by me, one of the people. The kids, of course, have no idea what’s going on, partly because they stayed up half the night and partly because they’re kids and more a part of nature than any adult, and like little bears, they’re going to sleep.

Of course, I like this rhythm of early rising. I liked it when I camped, I liked it when I worked, and I like it now, even on vacation, in Maine. I suppose I would have made a good farmer if that had been an option, but it was never offered. So, I just took on the part of being an early riser, the fixer of the coffee, the retriever of the morning paper, the let’er out of the dog, and sometimes the feeder and diaper changer of the baby. Maybe I just like being the first one up to make sure everything is still okay.

Different time now of course. I’m an old piece of driftwood floating along on the river of life. Not much depends on me getting up early. It’s just a habit I enjoy. Maybe I’m like an old athlete remembering his glory days, remembering when he had important roles to play. That’s okay I suppose. I’m not really bothering anyone and I don’t make a big deal out of it. Heck, most days I’m just happy to be alive, to have survived as long as I’ve survived. And if all I’ve got to look forward to are cool mornings filled with birdsong, that seems a pretty fair way to wrap things up.