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| Photograph by George Angus |
Very early morning. I’m sitting in my chair in front of our bedroom window, my journal in my lap. We’ve opened the windows during the night, but the curtains are still drawn. I’m listening to the dawn, letting the sounds bring the day into view.
I can hear that it’s overcast. It is quieter than a sunny morning when the sounds are filled with energy and activity. On such days the opening notes are an octave higher, there are more and they are louder. Impatient, it has no consideration for those still in bed.
But this morning is more tolerant, subdued. It has time. It is the type of dawn that will write a note to the rest of the day, asking it to take it a little slower. It is just here, on the other side of the curtains, quietly waiting.
I would have seen the daybreak filled with mist that has descended from the mountains around the house and has moved up the river to fill our yard and stand amongst the trees, by the absence of sound. On such mornings everything is wrapped in cloth. What touches and brushes against each other does so without the slightest noise.
Matilda gets up and opens the curtains.
I see what I saw.
George
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