The question today on my Day One Journal App page is “What is your favorite time of day?” I don’t even have to think about that—it’s right now. Morning, early morning. Before the sun has come up, when all but the earliest of the early risers are still asleep.
This morning I was up at 3:30. I set my coffee to brewing, got the fire stoked up, fed the dogs and cats. All during my chores, our Yorkie was pretty insistent that I take him outside. He’s been peeing in the house the past week or so, and has gotten in big trouble as a result, so I think he was wanting to demonstrate that he’s turned over a new leaf. At least I hope so.
The past few days I have felt hints of spring even though it’s not even February yet. It has been a strange winter. When we stepped outside, it was somewhat cold, but refreshing as there was no wind. I heard a rooster the next place over–not the one to the south of us, who sounds like someone yanks him by the throat each time he begins to crow, but the one to the north. He crows full throated and bold, like you expect a rooster to.
I looked to the east, wondering how he knew dawn was approaching. I could only see our version of what they call “city lights view” in the real estate ads–the lights of the interstate on the other side of the river–against a black sky. There’s a little sort of respite area there by the exit to Rock Port, Missouri—a MacDonald’s, a steakhouse, gas stations, a few places that sell fireworks. I don’t remember what else. No doubt a Subway, because they are ubiquitous in those locations. From our place, in darkness, though, you can’t tell that. You can’t see Golden Arches or fluorescent signs advertising competing prices for unleaded. You can only see the lights, twinkling in the distance, beyond them, a row of flashing red lights marking the wind turbines which stretch from Rock Port up into Iowa. That’s what I saw when I looked east. No reddish glow of dawn, yet somehow that rooster knew.
Beyond the sound of the rooster, a great horned owl in the distance, the infinitely disturbing call of a screech owl coming from the edge of our woods (seriously–listen to its call on the linked page if you don’t know what it sounds like), it was completely silent, so silent that I was taken aback by the sound of my own voice as I praised the dog for peeing where he was supposed to. Our porch cats had come out to walk with us, but I didn’t see them at first because of the complete darkness. I herded them back to the porch, and came inside where our Westie was asleep in front of the fire. In Phoenix, he used to go outside and sleep against a brick wall in full sun in summertime. He likes heat. My coffee was ready. I pressed it down, poured a cup, took up my spot on the corner of the couch to read, to think, to write.
