EARLY BIRDS

I believe in sleeping late. Why? Because an early awakening is always a long, hard trip. I struggle throughseveral layers of sleep inching toward the realization that my face feels flattened, my nose has shifted sideways, one eye dangles against my cheek, all my teeth have moved, andmy lips are gone. In time, I sit up, then I stand, finally I walk. Every sound reverberates, every light pierces, every object looms. I can’t bear to be noticed and I’m not readyto see, touch, or hear anyone else. Gerry believes in getting up early. His eyes open, everymorning, as if he’s set them the night before. He’s alert,he gets up. He walks through the house already knee deep in the power of positive thinking. I feel him vibrate, see him smile(lots of teeth), brace myself for his noisy exuberance: sometimes he sings. He claims that the best part of the dayis just before sunrise. Every morning he goes outside for awhile. He insists that the hush of outdoors at daybreak acts as a cushion against the hectic schedule ahead.I allowed his enthusiasm to persuade me to get up early this morning. To test his claims, I drink this morning’s orange juice in the summer dawn as I stroll around our back yard at daybreak. Daybreak is 5:30 A.M. in this case. The yard looks strange. The smudged darkness creates mystery. At a distance, well-known items appear as shadowed fantasy shapes. I know what’s there:  the tool shed that leans a little, the garbage can with a drain sticking outbeside it, three low bushes, one tall tree, and rows of flowers. But what I see is an elephant next to a short,round monk who’s about to kick an old woman crouching beside a tall witch who has an excessive supply of arms, elbows,and long gnarled fingers. Nearby, several rows of spirit beings, both tall and small with skinny necks and featheryheads, sway to a rhythm I can’t hear. As I gaze at these images, goose bumps march single file down the back of my neck, and I don’t dislike the feeling. There’s a double ambiance here. One seems spiritual, theother deliciously primitive. I feel faint yearnings to either pray and chant or dance and shout. But the latter would murder my nerves; the former, my sensible relationshipwith God. Anyway, I’ve a stronger urge to lie down on something soft and dry to finish my sleep. Did I say dry? If I could squeeze this morning, I’d wring tubs of waterfrom it. Moisture pervades the air; it beads on solid surfaces. All of nature droops and drips; I’m caught in a hyperbole of dewdrops. On the negative side, my sandals feel waterlogged. On the positive? Dewdrops aren’t noisy. Neither are the birds. They thwick a few monosyllabic test notes and stop. They don’t even try to sing. If these are examples of the legendary early bird, the worms might as well have breakfast, give thanks, celebrate, undulate, get down, get funky, get dewy all over. I just hope they can do it quietly. I feel at one with the birds. They aren’t ready to sing, and I’m not ready to hear singing. In the meantime, the shadows have been dissolving.Details have emerged. The flowers are visible. I’ve never seen them at this time of day. The four o’clocks are a riot of red; they’re such cheery, early-morning types that I want to ssssssshhh at them until they turn pale and pastel. Next to them are the day lilies. Their petals are closed and they look as ifthey’d be reluctant to wake up so early. Respecting thesekindred spirits, I tiptoe away. The wildflower patch is a scene of rampant merry making. I doubt if that bunch has even been to bed yet – the hussies! I wonder how the hollyhock can endure them as neighbors. She looks as ifshe’d enjoy a quiet visit over a cup of late-morning tea For several minutes, I’ve been aware of a new element in the morning–a hint of expectancy. Something usual but awesome is on its way. Something dependable but miraculousis about to happen. It’s something I know about but don’toften see.    Here it comes. The Sunrise!    It fans out across the sky in smears of pink, orange,and purple as carefree as a child’s finger painting. I squint against it’s vigor. Radiance and glory toucheseverything–the buildings, the flowers, each bush and tree.The sun is like my husband; it rises smiling and shouts”Good Morning”.          Now the birds find their voices and, each specie, its own song. The racket sends shock waves crashing to my every nerve ending.     A squirrel romps down the maple tree, all teeth and toenails, chattering and sassy. He pauses beside me looking cute. ” It’s too early for cute , Buster,” I tell him. A rabbit hops into view. She stops, twitches herwhiskers, and sniffs the newness of the morning.  As she stands upright in the mellow morning light, a whimsical notion drifts through my thoughts; a faint smileforms in my brain. Cautiously, I imitate the rabbit. I wiggle my nose and sniff the morning. I think it smells like a fresh start; maybe it’s the fragrance of opportunity or second chances.  By the time I usually wake up, the fragile aroma of  the new day has already been overpowered by the odors of exhaust fumes, frustration, and hurry. I savor the moment. I tremble on the brink of a new emotion.(Maybe it’s the self-righteous feeling of a personwho has gotten up early–a sense of being more noble and ofstronger character than late risers!) Whatever it is, I embrace it. I raise my glass and toast the sunrise; I drink my orange juice to the morning.  “My day has, thus, begun,” I think.    But not quite.     One early bird without a song, anonymous in a lingering shadow, targets my bare skin. A white plop. I watch a tributary separate and run down my arm and I feel__triumphant!  Thanks to that bird, I have won a victory. Iwas right all along.   I hurry inside to find my husband. This is a biological proof of a biological truth about morning people and eveningpeople. We’re meant to keep our place in the day. “Look,” I say, “Just look what early morning has done to me.”