The sunrise begins as an almost imperceptible change in color. The darkness takes on a hue. A nameless color spreads at the ridge line. It remains dark but you begin to discern a deep purple distinct from the black. Burgundy follows. Then you see it — that aching shadowy pink pushing up toward the clouds. Suddenly the underside of the sky is awash in it, and you pull on your coat with urgency, now, eager to be rid of the window pane and the screen of trees. You walk still in darkness, frosty grass crunching under your feet. 

And as you pass your neighbor’s driveway, you see a silhouette facing the morning glow. As you near, you see it’s your middle-school neighbor. They wait for the bus that passed already. 7:05, you say because you saw your daughter step into the cold and walk to the end of the drive, and disappear into that yellow rectangle coasting down Lydy hill.  You chat for a moment, and as you walk down toward the path in the woods, they call to you: “I don’t know why anyone would choose to be awake right now!”

Your answer is a slow walk through the woods, then the exertion up toward a clearing where all around will be the firey sky. The crescent moon, lofty and wise, watches you like a hawk tracking mice. Your small form charting a line out and up the grassy hill until it stops, a shadow now, standing reverent before a quiet land ablaze in beauty. If there is anything that reminds you of the humility of miracles, it is the sun’s daily return.