Good Morning

An alarm is never set at my house.  Four AM ushers some into deeper sleep, but it is the time my biological clock awakens.  At times I awaken to my body stretching before my eyes seem to be catching up.  There's an owl that lives in the tree outside my window.  He gently joins the music of morning and the ritual of stumbling in the dark to turn on Mozart or Vivaldi. I make my way to the kitchen to start coffee.  I am a coffee snob.  Freshly ground beans.  Not any beans.  Organic fair-trade beans.  The aroma fills the air before the brewing begins, as the freshly ground coffee makes it way systematically to the pot.  Making my way to open blinds to world not yet awake, and knowing I will see only a dark sky dimly lit by street lamps on the other side of the park, I want to be prepared to see the sun the moment it breaks it's evening silence. A warm mug of creamy coffee, and a blanket over my arm, I make my way to the seat near the window where a pen and a journal await me.  I sometimes write for hours, sometimes for but a moment, but daily, I write, and free the creativity of its sleep-laden quiet of night. My camera sits near the door.  It is ready as I quickly dress, put on my jacket as I get ready to descend the stairs that will take me into my work for the day.  Damp grass, or glistening snow fill my senses, memories flooding from the scent of the country, the quiet of the open land, and they sustain me as I am off to claim a day in the city as my own.