This morning’s sky was sheer cerulean blue. The flowering tree at my gate is now alive by half. Some buds have turned to sun-crisped mottled crepe, while their resilient companions stretch improbably towards the bright light before they, too, will crumple like nightmare moths and fall to the earth. Cyclists woosh past flowerbeds of intense violet, lime green, and improbable orange. Dogs investigate what lies moldering underneath fallen leaves.
Billy Collins’ poem Morning is about energized beginnings, the counterpoint to melancholy moonlit midsummer nights and the wee hours’ bottomless black:
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—