There is a moment

An unpublished essay I stumbled upon in my files this morning

There is a moment, just before dawn, when the sky is still dark, but just light enough that the silhouettes of the trees are darker. When they are in leaf, they make a pattern on the sky that is more intricate than lace, and more beautiful. It has the seemingly chaotic pattern of organic things that have grown to their own form and purpose. It isn’t chaos, though. It is a system of deep internal order.

Most mornings I find myself perched at a window high above the floor of the woods, looking out at the trees and sky. As the light grows, I can make out the broken branches of a dead tree in the hollow, still stretched out against the sky, and I know, if I am patient, soon a family of crows: a mama, a papa, several babies, and perhaps some aunts and uncles, will gather there for breakfast, the babies squawking awkwardly like the big adolescents they are, while the adults scurry to find enough to keep their stomachs full. I am fond of this little family and would like to befriend them, but, like them, this is my working time, and my leisure hours do not coincide with their schedule.

The woods at this hour are at their most alluring, mysterious, and beautiful,  like a delicious book, beckoning for exploration. Being adventurous has different manifestations. Some people are emotionally adventurous—some physically. Probably I fall into the former category—and with gusto—but the notion of venturing out along the leafy paths at this hour, where mosquitoes, ticks, deer flies, and other biting things lay in wait is utterly unappealing, not to mention disruptive to work. My distaste for being bitten is probably another reason I love cold weather so much.

I look down, absorbed in my work, and when I look up again a quarter, or  half an hour later, the horizon is already orange, the long strip above it peach, and the trees above my head are now silhouetted against a rich soft blue.

The dogs, who wait patiently while I write, notice my movement and begin to stir, eager to go where I will not. I tell them they must wait for the creatures of the night to return home, in part for the dogs’ protection from skunks, coyotes, and raccoons, in part for the protection of the wild ones. The possum who visits nightly and stands on his hind legs to investigate our french doors with no apparent fear would be utterly helpless against the dogs. The dogs do not understand, but they accept my judgment. And so they stir, and settle again, while I continue to do what must, to them, appear to be nothing.

The color is creeping up the sky from the horizon, and more of the trees emerge from the darkness against the first hints of sunrise. The sun itself is not yet visible, only its harbinger of color. I would like a lamp that had this design of warmth and light against the shapes of trees. It would be a gentle thing to wake to in the raw hour when I tear myself from sleep and rise to write.

Now there is purple along the rim of the earth, beneath the orange. It is the  clouds rising above the lake, created by water that is warmer than the air. I can barely see it now, with the leaves, but soon the leaves will be gone, flooding our woodland house with light, and giving a clear view of the eastern sky, still with trees, but now only the sculpted shape of their trunks and branches: clean, straight, and rimmed with lavender. I love the time of year when the house glows all day with light from the sun, untinged by the green of the leaves.

The dogs are snoring again, except for Moses, who is the guardian of his domain. The sounds of my husband stirring will soon awaken them again, and although Auggie will run to greet him, Moses will keep his post while elderly Pete snoozes in the peace of his deafness.

And I go back to work.

***

And now for your gratuitous dog photo:

As my regular followers know, Eli, brought home two days before lockdown, has many fears. Chief among them is his fear of thunder, which he has translated into a fear of heavy rain, the metallic clanging of dump, pick-up, and garbage trucks, the rumble of motorcycles, and the echoes of jet engines overhead. Yesterday, as I was napping, there was a sudden heavy cloudburst while the sun was shining overhead. I was awakened by a familiar shaking of the bed, and before I could move, Eli was sitting on my head. That’s my eye under there. He likes to sit on us when he’s scared, and normally I don’t mind. Have I mentioned that he’s 140 pounds?

You can purchase my books at your favorite bookseller. Some of my favorite shops are Honest Dog Books, Boswell Book Company, Mystery to Me Books, Books and Company, Barbara’s Bookstores, Barnes & Noble, Target, and, of course, here. My illustrated children’s book, My Dog Pete is available only here.