Due to a new work schedule, I’ve had an extra hour or two each morning before I’m scheduled at the office, and it’s been a happy reminder of how much I missed being up in the morning (and how much I can actually get done in the early hours, such as writing this post). As much as I love music, there’s something equally riveting about the morning silence. Actually, change that: morning has its own music, the world just needs to be very quiet to hear it.
A bouquet of pink chrysanthemums (daisies, for all intents and purposes) stands in an old-fashioned vase, blinking sleepily in the morning haze.
Water vapor rises from the pool, the welcome coolness relief from a string of hot days.
And then the song: a gentle trilling of bird chirps, the call of a distant insect, the pitter-patter of squirrel feet on the roof. Muffled, moving, and contemplative, it’s a music that matches the mist of morning, before the veil of the day gets lifted and folded gently into sun-soaked oblivion.
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