I rise at dawn, lace up my running shoes, and step out into the cool pre-morning air. There is no sign that anyone in the world is awake, other than the faint chirping of the early birds whom I presume are getting the worms. For a moment, I feel privileged.
The sky is a bold shade of ambiguity. It is neither dark night nor bright day, and if forced to decide I would declare it silver, although it is a bluish-grayish silver like the color of the Dallas Cowboys britches that I never have been able to properly identify. The conservative moon shines brightly overhead to testify that night remains, but there is an unmistakable sense that night is transforming into a new day. You can see the anticipation in the air.
On days like this, the day simply arrives without fanfare. I like it that way. The glorious sunrise is such a showoff, demanding adjectives like “glorious” and bursting on to the sky like Justin Bieber enters a party. Sure, everyone wants to see a sunrise, but there is something comforting about the typical, understated way most days just seem to happen. For those of us who struggle to keep it together, it is nice to know that you might just wake up and discover a new day.
I salute the dawn, nature’s way of saying that life and light are on the way.