How Pink the Dawn

Trees Among the PinkArising before the dawn, I cross stone landing and clamber down the three steps from our bedroom where Jerry and Winston yet slumber on our wide bed. I walk my morning trek . . .to the thermostat, to the switch whose click will throw first light on the kitchen, a glimpse at the thermometer outside the window over the sink, a push of the button that sets the coffee to gurgle.

I pull slender cords that spread wide the blinds to show the glassy expanse. Black out there now, but I know the light will come, for I remember well—recall from countless yesterdays. The rise of the mountains from the bowl of Lake Gregory will in a few minutes penetrate the dark and announce the day. Those pointy trees will still be there, firmly rooted, and I will stare, as I have thousands of times before.

My favorite couch faces that large window. I meditate and mull and consider. I contemplate options and opposing views. Life expectancy charts come to mind as do the faces of my doctors and of my children, and of dear Jerry.

Then I see it and know I must move quickly. Light is fragile. Swift as life. That spectacular pink spread, gauzy now with fog is for but a moment. I take up my camera, move through the wide opening to the front deck, make shutter adjustments, lift my camera, and doing the best I can, capture this stately scene.

Such a scene cannot be truly captured, nor can a life be truly made clear.