Reflection
I was born in the wee hours of the morning in December and continued to wake up around dawn. My body clock may be tuned to my arrival on Earth. The moment I open my eyes, that happens with the birds waking up, and then the coziest bed can’t hold me.
When I wake up, I don’t rush to the kitchen for a warm morning drink. Instead, open the back door leading to the garden and step out. With long, deep breaths, I fill my lungs with the air that holds the cloying scent of the seasonal flowers or has a crispness that only those early hours of a day hold. If we had a rainy night, the air felt heavy with water droplets on the grass, and the boughs of the trees lined up at the garden’s edge. An invisible wet blanket wraps the morning world and draws me in as I stand under the rain-drenched sky. The birds recognize me, I am sure, when I join them in the garden and sit in the middle, quiet, minus my phone.
“Hey Feathery Friends,” I say, “it’s just me, no electronics.”
The robins, a pair of mourning doves, and a blue jay often join me with their delightful songs. Once in a while, a sparrow might drop in and hop around the garden, looking for something with a barrage of reminders that I should have invited it to my morning get-together. When the summer is in full swing, with the first streaks of the sunrise, bees start gathering their honey as…
