Monday, February 21, 2005

The Sun Slept In

Last night I awoke here and there to a crash of thunder or emblazoning bolt of lightening illuminating my room. This morning, when I finally peeled myself away from my warm and sweetly enveloping bed, the sun still lay slumbering beyond the horizon. Or at least it so appeared since the wind still raged and cumulus nimbi continued to drape themselves across the celestial sphere. As I left the house, I turned to back porch light on, assured the day to be one of gloomy darkness.

Then, as I drove northward into work, something happened. As the clouds relieved the horizon of their foreboding presence, light came glimmering through as though the world might finally awaken for the day, as if I saw the sun rise a few hours late. I haven't seen a sunrise for quite sometime, but I imagine it would have appeared as so, with the darkness retreating, giving way at last to the clarity of the dawn. Sunsets, which I also haven't seen in a bit, offer glorious layers of light and dark as the sun makes a defiant exit. Sunrises are less like the tympanic nuance of "Also Sprach Zarathustra: Sunrise" and more like the slow, steady unfurling of a flower or the methodic unraveling of a tattered sweater.

Today I got to see the morning unwind.