who is dawn?
A new day has dawned.
This statement, simple enough, makes me laugh in remembrance of when my favorite family was road-trippin'. I was reading "Tales of One Thousand and One Nights" aloud in the car, and after I had intoned, "...and when dawn arrived...." (which is an integral part of the story, seeing that Scheharazade spins wild tales to the sultan every night in order to save her life) for the twentieth time, Friend #12 finally broke down in frustration.
"WHO. IS. DAWN? You keep saying she came, but I don't know who she is!"
But I digress.
At 6 a.m., the construction crew is just moseying down the hill to the bridge. The scuff of their boots on gravel ricochets on the empty street like the first noise of creation. The moist, dim air is hungry for sound, having languished in near silence throughout the long night.
Over the tumbling pewter-stroked river water, a crisp sliver of moon hangs by a invisible silver wire in the inky sky. That indefinable hour called twilight, those suspended minutes between evening and morning, creeps along like Carl Sandburg's famous fog on little cat feet.
I blow my nose eighteen times and sit on the couch, thinking about the day that stretches before me. Scripture memorization. School. The baking of a cheesecake. The cooling of a cheesecake. A run to Canton to deliver #1 Daughter to her babysitting/cleaning gig, a run to Potsdam to accompany a dress rehearsal in a concert hall. #1 Son's face in our kitchen and backyard. Hubby's cheerful requests for fresh coffee. Dinner somehow. The happy sounds of hammering, shoveling, drilling, and who knows what from behind the house. Maybe the treat of a concert tonight!
It will be a lovely day of busy-ness. How nice to think it through while the birds are still in their nests and the kids are still in their beds.
This statement, simple enough, makes me laugh in remembrance of when my favorite family was road-trippin'. I was reading "Tales of One Thousand and One Nights" aloud in the car, and after I had intoned, "...and when dawn arrived...." (which is an integral part of the story, seeing that Scheharazade spins wild tales to the sultan every night in order to save her life) for the twentieth time, Friend #12 finally broke down in frustration.
"WHO. IS. DAWN? You keep saying she came, but I don't know who she is!"
But I digress.
At 6 a.m., the construction crew is just moseying down the hill to the bridge. The scuff of their boots on gravel ricochets on the empty street like the first noise of creation. The moist, dim air is hungry for sound, having languished in near silence throughout the long night.
Over the tumbling pewter-stroked river water, a crisp sliver of moon hangs by a invisible silver wire in the inky sky. That indefinable hour called twilight, those suspended minutes between evening and morning, creeps along like Carl Sandburg's famous fog on little cat feet.
I blow my nose eighteen times and sit on the couch, thinking about the day that stretches before me. Scripture memorization. School. The baking of a cheesecake. The cooling of a cheesecake. A run to Canton to deliver #1 Daughter to her babysitting/cleaning gig, a run to Potsdam to accompany a dress rehearsal in a concert hall. #1 Son's face in our kitchen and backyard. Hubby's cheerful requests for fresh coffee. Dinner somehow. The happy sounds of hammering, shoveling, drilling, and who knows what from behind the house. Maybe the treat of a concert tonight!
It will be a lovely day of busy-ness. How nice to think it through while the birds are still in their nests and the kids are still in their beds.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 7:30 AM
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