This is what the world looks like from my window at 3:30am on June 8th in central Maine. I left the clock image blurry, since that represents pretty well how my perception was working at the time...
The first bird sang out its clarion call with conviction at 3:33 this morning. I know, because I’d already been lying awake for quite some time. Ten minutes later the next brave soloist tested his voice. The only other sounds were the skitterings and scratchings of the unknown creature who lives in our ceiling, and the shiftings and scratchings of the known creature lying next to me.
Thoughts swirled: the Zoom-talk I have to give today, the logistics of renting on Sutton Island, my mother-in-law’s grocery list… I gave up on sleeping and turned on a light to read. Jonathan pulled our shared makeshift mask – a wadded t-shirt – over his eyes, but finally gave up and pulled out a book.
By 4:45, five minutes to dawn, birdsong had swelled to orchestral proportions. I turned out the light to little darkness. Drifting away, I startled at a bird’s thump against the window. At last, I slept.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 287: 156 words, TOTAL = 47,916; 12,084 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.