Fire at dawn. Deep pink flames lick up from between the trees, consuming last night’s darkness. Sunfire meets fresh air and morning spreads like wildfire to the South and around the horizon, heading west across a quickly changing cirrus sky. A watercolor palette in the works; it diffuses… melding into a dawn of color.
The landscape is awake now, alert and growing brilliant with detail and glowing in the promise of what lies ahead.
The color aims its streaks my way. My eyes light up from without and within. The gold and peach and pink reflect on my hair and glow on my skin. I cannot brush it off or remain a spectator; I’ve become part of the scene. Any who step into the brushstroke of the morning will be featured in this artwork. No one who steps from the shadows will be excluded from the glory of dawn or their role unfolding.
Color washes my way. I gladly stand in its path and soak it in. I think I’ll carry it off with me, down the western roads and along my way into the less gentle light of another full-fledged day. It won’t be easy to hold onto the warmth and color of these firey beginnings. Heaven knows I have to travel toward gray places and meet up with the black and white of decision and the murky rust of hassle and opposition, possibly even stumbling onto a dreary disappointment or bumping into an intimidating and ugly confrontation.
For now, I’ll gather a pocketful of the sparkling glitter the sunrise left scattered across the blades of grass at my feet; I’ll bring it back out once the harsher side of the day inevitably erases this moment from the sky and my memory. It’s worth a shot.
Thank goodness for morning.