The crepuscle. The night creatures wrap it up. The unborn sun stirs the world. Birds begin their roll call. The sound of scurrying in the fallen leaves. Overhead, the sky is a fleece sock. No road noises. Maybe no one has left home, yet; or maybe it's the clouds in our ears. An almost perfectly rectangular cloud is directly above us. We watch it drift to the southeast as it loses its shape.
The dawns aches. We arch our backs in time with the sun's directive: wake up. The rays of light claw back the blanket of clouds, no matter how we struggle to keep them over our heads. The morning insists. Also, the crows. They shout the morning news from beyond the skeletal canopy of winter trees, warning the un-listening populous in vain.
Denial is not an option once Helios appears in his full prismatic glory. The opening chorus: day's creatures color inside the lines to flesh out the historic cycle of work, readiness, repose, the unknown. Chickadees flurry in the brambles. Bright red cardinals stand guard.
We squint our eyes shut, listen. We try to stall the day by looking into our cups full of boldness, drinking in the warmth that spreads through us like the warmth of the sun on our skin. This is how we remember what we promised the world on the day we were forced into it and what some part of us has been made to swear secretly every day since: I will live. I will live. I will live.
Sometimes we forget our promise. The worn path of the quotidian lulls us into a trance as if to place 'living' on hold because we allow it. We haven't discovered how to avoid losing ourselves in ruts. We fall into a cherished oubliette, find cold comfort there where we know every turn of brick, every chink in the wall that is not to be disturbed, each task that must be completed in support of our solitude.
Despite our best efforts, life finds us. We climb up into the world again. There are new facades, hidden meanings, labyrinths. The living is rife with adjectives like loathsome, luscious, lucky, lugubrious, ludicrous, loud. These are our toads, sparrows, peacocks, puppies, wolves, mountains, meadows, spices, our spectrum of light.
Now, we look to the west where the sun longs for sleep. The jay birds cease their raucous parade. The squirrels scold each other goodbye until tomorrow. Stars, weak but promising, begin to dot the slate blue-purple sky. An owl, readying for the hunt, croons its question. A ghost moon holds water. The night creatures stir. The crepuscle.