Not a morning person by nature, my days nonetheless start ridiculously early at present. Five days a week my alarm clock is set for 5:40 am -- which is not to say I always manage to immediately stumble out of bed without engaging the snooze button.
I've been learning to appreciate the early mornings and the beauty that Spring carries in her back pocket. This morning as I returned home from work I had to pull the car over and take in the pockets of light and shadow cresting the hills at whose base I dwell. In the early morning, when the light is precisely so, the beginning of spring dresses the crags of the hills with a fabric of brushed velvet, the smoke screen of early morning sunshine smoothing out all the wrinkles of nature.
And when I step out of my car and sit at my computer to write of love and of poison -- of murder -- the glorious beauty of my morning draws the poetry of symbolism from inside me, filtering into the writing of today.