Morning

Most of these summer mornings, for me, pass in an overblanketed blur, in those unfailingly strange dreams, interrupted by the moments of clarity brought on by the snooze button's lease expiring again or the sun's encroachment, advancing, bright legions marching over the kicked-off covers. And so I retreat, back underground. Eight, nine, ten, the hours pass in five-minute increments. Eventually I slither forth, shedding my skin and emerging, bleary-eyed, pink, and often late for the day's docket.

But.

Twice now I have set the alarm for the previously unthinkable hour of half-past six. And to my surprise, I found my eyes opening clear, free of the haze of sleep. I descended from my tall mattress, feet first, sitting becoming standing through a simple, effortless transfer of weight. And just like that, the day began.

The air shines crisp, clear and golden, striped with sunbeams. It tastes of cool water now, tinged with the promise of warmth later in the day. The light is almost liquid, and in it the world is softly bathed.

Bacon sizzles. Toast, coffee, clothes, shower. Amazing how necessity drapes itself in elegance when there is no rush, when the day stretches out ahead of me like miles of open road, potential adventures round every sloping curve.

And so I give in. I will be a morning person.