“So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.”
- Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Morning unveils itself like a bashful bride, slow and tender and blushing. The air is cool and still. I love this time. The world turns and awakens and breathes life into a new day.
At the coast, the sea ebbs and flows. The beat of the summer tide washes onto the shore rhythmically, like the pulse of the earth, quickening and slowing. I listen as the water crashes and retreats, incessant and timeless.
The warming air is a kaleidoscope of colour. The light bathes the land in golden hues. Night's purple legions are replaced by deep reds, creamy pinks and sky blue. High above my head, the clouds blanch and bloom, silent witnesses to the story of dawn.
And so the day begins. The earth rotates through space turning at once toward and away from the Sun. As I watch the night slip away in a combination of colour and warmth so some are turning the lights out on their day. We are all passengers on a daily voyage.
Soon I will leave for home. For the minute, I am alone and king of all that I see. I hear the call of a seabird and the engine of a distant car. My spell is broken and the day has begun.
Dawn's witness