Denizens of Dawn

Something feels wonderful about today; it’s just past dawn and there are no diamonds on the ridge top; the clouds hang low, another three hundred feet above the eleven hundred where I now sit. 

The crass and exalted cries of wild parrots punctuate the busy chorus of songbirds, their casual chatter like passing comments offered while gnarled hands twist the dough and linens are snapped into place.... and there she is, the elder woman who sets out fresh linen each morning, the fastidious ritual that situates her vision of what morning should be; and I recall Serge, the Baker of Vanderbilt Avenue who infused Brooklyn mornings with his affection for home; and somewhere the boatsmen are already awake, always awake before the rest of us, no matter the hour of our rise, and their engines churn that low, jocular gurgle that describes readiness, always a few more chores to tend to, above deck and below; and the loyalist wave riders who wriggle into their second skin while the contractors and servicemen skirt the seaside, a couple hours before the necktie brigade clogs the thoroughfare, and the surfers look only to the sea and the laborers look to them wondering if any past time could be so good as to warrant that icy plunge; and the scores of suburban kitchens flooded with florescent light, bustling, steam rising from mediocre coffee, toasters popping, margarine tubs masquerading as healthful alternative, bright cartoon boxes with puzzles and cheer and torn top-flaps; and a I give a splash of coffee for my brothers who rise and wait for that first door pop of the day and it's a day like every other, tinged with the hope that the greatest hardship will be the boredom, even there, the first hour of the day is the most unsullied. 

For me the clouds have risen just a bit, and though they still swallow the better part of the cheerful and splashy morning light, a band of pure white appears along the ridge top, a breach through which the day’s blinding concerns and opportunities will soon appear.