Night...still blackest night.
It is nigh on 5 am, and I haven't slept a wink. These early hours are nearly silent. Only the distant rumble of cars on Hwy 31 betrays a locale with any substantial population. Beyond that, it is nature-silent, but not. The crickets are chirping and a small chorus of frogs croak down near the pond. The rhythmic drip of rainwater, cool for nearly mid-June, falls in a pedantic, near silent cacophony of minuscule thwip, thwip, thwip. An occasional breeze whips the flame of the oil lamp burning on the table. It's flame gutters and flickers…the acrid smell of citronella is bandied about the nostrils.
The rain has sent the mosquitoes into hiding, and I am grateful. The weather is cool and inviting, and the aroma from the eruption of gardenias by the front walk does battle with the swags of blood-red roses ablaze in the flower bed. The winner of this nocturnal battle royale is, oddly enough, the intoxicating smell of honeysuckle emanating from vines I can't see, but am certain of.
One of the two feral cats that slinks about the neighborhood engaged in a symphony of caterwauling. Even on this moonless night, the view is a patchwork of colors and shapes. Under the blue-black sky drenched with rain, the foliage is vivid green. The roses, gardenias, day lilies and lantana are a palate of reds, purples, yellows and whites. The flickering flame of the oil lamp drips burning golden light like a tiny sun flickering in its own solar winds. To my right, off the front porch stands a stately river birch. On my left is a lonely crepe myrtle. As the tide of the winds rise and fall, their leaves rustle and twist, shimmering grey-green as they cling to the branches with determined will. The black asphalt of the street is cloaked in the painful yellow glow of the incandescent street lights.
All too soon, it seems, the Almighty has ended the night’s muffled silence and birdsong fills the air. It is bright and bold and full of all the promise of a June morning. The wind has finally conquered the lamp flame and, in the absence of its glow, I see that the sky is taking in a bracing breath, fading from blue-black to blue steel.
Morning breaks in her own time. The world awakens with slow and resolute purpose. It is no small affair-coming to life. Morning is a miracle of sorts, if you take the time to notice. God, in his infinite wisdom, provides inspiration on a daily basis-all we need posses is the desire to be inspired. Sitting on this horribly uncomfortable chair affords me a view of a daily miracle, if I take time to witness it. And this miracle will change as the weeks and months pass. From this temperate June will come a burning August, a cool, sweet October, a biting and frosty December, a damp chilly March. "There and back again", as Bilbo Baggins said in The Hobbit; that wonderful book of seasons-and adventures.
As I have sat-watching and listening, I am for once, glad that I didn't sleep. Now, the sky is a deep Carolina azure-grey. The birds and insects are absolutely howling. Morning has begun in earnest, and the magic of her most gentle efforts is spent. I have sat here for exactly 50 minutes...now, as the call of ducks erupts in the distance, I will end my vigil, take to my bed and try to sleep for an hour or two; before the trappings of my human existence compel me to wake and go out into the morning whose birth I have just witnessed.
Until then...
