The Moment of Dawn

The sunrise is an ever-evolving thing. Who is to say where and when she truly begins and ends? Is she the ethereal glow on the horizon with its transient array of light blues, pinks, oranges, and yellows? Certainly the answer as to “when the sunrise is” has more to do with her crown breaking the definitive line between the silhouetted horizon and the wide open sky’s expanse, bathing the world and her wonders below with the first warming angel rays after a dormant night.

But where and when does she begin?

Furthermore, who is to make the assumption or assertion as to where and when she ends? I thought I knew, but now I am leaving it up to her to decide where and when she begins and ends. After all, she does not define me – my waking or sleeping, good days or bad.

We have no more say over one another than the color blue has over the flavor of midsummer strawberries, nor a wooden chair over the direction of the Atlantic winds.

And so it is that I reaffirm the sunrise is an ever-evolving thing. Temperamental as well, but not so much so that I’d refer to her as a creature. Not in the way that the midday sun in July is a beast. No, the sunrise is its own wisp of ambiguity, neither consistent nor inconsistent enough to define any portion of her self.

She, and she alone, knows herself. Our days begin and conclude in her utter disregard. Dreams start and cease without her. A dewdrop still forms from a mist, and an autumn leaf still drifts placidly to the ground.

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