Since 2010, my sunrise year, my encounters with dawn have been rare. I see her occasionally through slitted eyelids when she peers into our eastern-facing windows on Sutton. Then I roll over inhospitably and slip back into lovely oblivion a while longer. Today I was awake at 3:30 when the slightest hint of light haunted the sky. By 4:40 I gave up. A particularly promising sky-pink tantalized me out of bed.
For those unfamiliar with dawn’s light sequence, the most vibrant display, if it comes at all, blossoms about 20 minutes before sunbreak. Today’s arrived around 4:50. By 5:12 colors muted to gray as the sun emerged dazzling from behind the rise of land on Schoodic Point. My shared witnesses: some lobster-fishermen, a few seabirds, and hordes of hungry mosquitoes, more interested in my legs than the sky.
Now it’s 7:10. I’ve walked and fed the dogs, made myself a huge trucker breakfast. My eyelids are drooping. Might be time for a nap.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 330: 163 words, TOTAL = 53,538; 6,462 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.