Feb. 21st, 2011

Sunrise

Feb. 21st, 2011 12:46 am
i_id: (Lightbringer)
Sunrise punctuates the end of my shift, like the intake of breath after a speech. It accompanies me home, turning the black world of my workday through gray and blue to warmer shades. When I drive over the bridge, the new sun floods my rearview mirror, seeming to hurry and rise, so that I don't miss this little slice of daylight before I creep into my room to sleep behind covered windows and muffled doors. Ahead of me, west, the setting moon perches atop the mountain like the seed pod of a silver dollar plant, <i>lunaria annua</i>, washed delicate orange in reflection of the nascent sky behind me.

As I drive, I see banks of snow geese lifting from the fields where tulips are beginning to poke stiff green leaves through the soil, their whiteness overwhelming and their numbers stunning. I see two ducks skimming the waters of Fidalgo Bay, so perfectly in sync that they look like a double exposure, two matching silhouttes with slow-beating wings until the lead looks back, checking on his friend. I see a coyote, watching that same creamsicle moon from the bank beside the freeway, its fur the same color as the winter-sere grass. An owl, blinking sleepily and picking at his night's hunt. A bald eagle, head under its wing on the peak of a crumbling gray barn.

I am alone at work, eight hours without another soul. I am not, for this drive.

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