A Slow Regard For Silent Things
I woke up with the sun, when the air was still cold enough to send shivers up my spine. The forest was still that predawn grey, before the sun had truly crawled from its bed. I rolled out of my tent, stumbling towards the fire pit, waiting for that warm touch of first light on my skin.
But that golden glow didn't arrive in full, the sun was sleeping in. I stepped in to tend to the forest, coaxing the trees and flowing creek awake with a spluttering fire and soothing words.
Okay, maybe I had woken up because I had forgotten my sleeping bag and it was cold enough to need a fire, but I was still up, and the sun was still late.
After weeks of limited time out amongst the places I loved, trapped by an overwhelming mass of papers, exams, deaths and marriages, I was burnt out and in need of a moment away from the world. It was time to return home, it was time to return to the mountains.
Tending to the Dawn
The sun has been up for hours, but like me it wants nothing more than to be groggy and in bed. So I get up for it and tend to the fire as it dozes on and off in the blue white of the sky. The sleepy thing shudders and rolls over, motes of sunlight peaking briefly through the branches as it yawns.
Against the babbling of the creek rolling in its bed, the fire crackles and dances, happy to be awake this morning. The smoke of it drifts off across the water, glad to explore this simple morning.
It wants nothing more than to be free in the quiet and even light of dawn. The rambunctious smoke glides over the creek, twisting all bothersome amongst the quiet trees.
I wait by the fire, feeding it's greedy belly. It's a needy thing, but just the way it should be dancing above its glowing coals.
I wait for the sun to wake up from its sleeping in, so I tend to its world while it slumbers.
Without the sun, the morning has a bite, but a soft one, like the press of cool rain on my skin, or the tingle of a first kiss against my bones.
As a simple chill sends cozy shivers down my spine, the sun stretches it's weary head. It shines all bright and timid as it tumbles askew down through the cedar.
The green needles turn green and yellow in the soft, morning light, making them shake with giddy laughter against their branches.
A Slow Regard for Silent Things
In the waking wood, with the white noise of nature all around, the sun begins to wake with a slow regard for silent things, glad that it was able to sleep in.