Morning, first light, windows up overnight against the uncommon chill of a July dawn. I’m drawn out onto the porch steps, legs stretched out along the tread, back to the railing. I watch the day unfold even before it has become anything more than a faintly lighter gray-blue through the weave of leafery and branches on the east ridge.
Slowed down in this way to the rhythms of the world outside, my own inner gears less awhirl with plans and deadlines and the adrenalin of purpose, a different kind of motion becomes evident, bit by bit, and I calm in the wonder-gloom to the spatter of creek and drip of dew from last night’s cool passing.
Gray blue grades to faintest peach, higher up in the branches, then fades back again. The sun is rising, or so it seems. Still is still moving, my place on the front porch steps turns by some slight arc towards the Day Star.
Clouds like the skim of foam on the ebbing wave of falling tide pass relentlessly south, peach to gray to blue behind the ridgeline forest.
Three bats trace over and over the same horizontal orbit over the yard, under the maple, against the ridgeline sunrise.
Rising, ebbing, circling, the world is full of motion and utterly still. A bird, familiar, but one I cannot name, breaks silence, and the day is now open for business.