Summer mornings are always an adventure of awakening. This morning, it began with the stealth of muted sound as one bird, then another and another, gave voice to the start of their day, whispered at first in to the fog of this day’s dawning (whether the fog actually mutes their cries or not, I cannot say, but it seems so).
In short order (apparently it only takes one or two to wake the whole crowd), thousands of voices of hundreds of different calls and cries filled the air, chased by the sounds of cars and trucks and log trucks and other hauling equipment passing by, hurrying from one place to another, filling the air with the noise of their impatience as they whiz by.
As quickly as they came, their noise fades back to the birds, quietened by their departures for parts unknown, til it be night again and they return to settle in, calling out their subdued good-nights.
And tomorrow it begins again.
I am always struck by the great band of the noises of the morning – so quickly upon me and so quickly passed by. Some mornings, I let it all wash over me and pass back to my own rest. Others, I bound out of bed, energized by the hustle and bustle outside my window.
Sundays are the best, when, after the lull, as the morning grows late, Glen walks his way to church, singing his baritone glories to God along the way.
I never tire of the serenade of the morning. I just wish I knew the notes for the song of the log trucks – bass profundo with their reverb bouncing off the house and setting it to joining in the song. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to sing along with them.