4:45 a.m.
Dark. Quiet.
I'm awake and have been for a little while. And I lay in silence between crisp clean sheets with only the sound of my dog's snoring.
I rise. Press the button on the coffee maker, giving it permission to start to release the inside smells of the morning.
I open the back door. The dog leaps down two steps into the screen porch and out into the darkness while I step outside, closing the door behind me, to take in the outside smells of the morning. Today, it's green. And earth. And a faint hint of floral. It couldn't be time for orange blossoms yet, could it? And I hear birds. They're awake too.
And I think I understand their joy.
My eyes adjust. And now I see the trees, dark brown and black, outlined against the deepest blue-black sky. I hear my dog's steps even though I know he's not as close as he sounds.
The air is clean. And uncluttered. And crisp. And like my sheets, it envelops me.
The birds have quieted their songs as if listening, anticipating something to come.
My Muse speaks.
She sends me back into the inside bounding for pen and paper. When she completes her own song, I look through my window, into my front yard, to discover a lighter slate blue sky and a moon lingering. Listening and watching the Muse's every word.
Mornings, for me, are beautiful this way.