Breaking Morning

Chapter 1

Woken by a weeping wind pressing on moss laden boughs. Without strong breath a first cough breaks the puss sealed eyelids. In fits and starts dispersing, the cough shakes the body awake. First awareness is the wet air, laden with molden spores blowing over contorted blankets. A numb arm turns the body over allowing warm air out. A scratching sheet is left to irritate now cold skin. Rubbing rub-worn lashes, a morning light is broken by dust laden gray rays. As the rays come into focus the smell of last nights fire yet still reeks and all around the creaking A-frame moans its morning breath.

This type of awakening leaves you with no doubt that late winter is a reality rather than a cozy dream. Stealing worn sheets to cover exposed limbs the mind reflects on an evening lost. Within a few minutes the bed is no longer a retreat and you stagger for yesterday’s underwear and a still damp towel. Perhaps, that first thought was a wish to be still drunk. Instead the legs carry you to the shower, while the brain considers were the misplaced glasses are. Within fifteen minutes the keys, bag, stone cold bagel and tea flask are outside, but no eyewear to be seen. Back inside another five minutes are spent retracing last night stumbles; finally it is possible to lock the door, cursing wistfully at a brought on forgetfulness. You know this attitude is negative and can’t remain. Soon, coffee will start the day. Alone, the house left behind passes in the mirror, but the drab blue walls and silver grey shingles are quickly hidden by beggar bent hemlocks and a brigade of nettles.

The radio will advise that traffic approaching the city far away from here is snarled up, yet this road stretches all before you. Cresting the hill, a sharp band of transparent moisture laden air cuts across your vision rising from the sag that forms the valley floor. The rising air leads an eye up the pathy hills to a rocky outcrop, known by the name Mount Wow. Well behind Wow, a watery sun is stumbling over a jagged black horizon line. The vehicle slows, approaching the entrance into old growth trees. Venerable respect to natures last strand. Passing with care under the cedar arch you can’t miss the Douglas fir left of the entrance booth is freshly scarred. RV’d by some knight of the road, rushing to leave behind a canopy that with an already low slung sun, darkens day in a valley . In another fifteen minutes the moss laden forest gives itself up to a village of sorts. This arrival at work, with car windows blaring open, comes with a realization that the smell of morning remains constant yet the light is ever changing.