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My bedroom window - a tall frame for the world outside - is a wonderful thing.
It begins the
day by encouraging the shy sun to tiptoe onto my bed and caress
my face (she
whispers "good morning - rise and shine!"). When I get up, the
window gleams
and beckons to me, and I can almost hear it calling me to peek
out and see
the sleepy world: the mountains are
clinging to their thin sheets
of fog which
have slid down from above their proud heads to their knees. The
neighboring
houses blink and rub misty sleep from their eyes as their occupants
begin getting
ready to leave for work and school.
Birds flutter impatiently and
excitedly
about, urging the trees to wake up (the trees wave their arms, trying
shoo the
pesky singers away).
When the sun
is at her boldest, peering down at the valley and the surrounding
mountains all
at once, my window nearly bursts with the vivid colors showing
through: the deep greens and blues on the mountains;
the golden-red brush
hugging the
narrow black-gray pathway behind the houses; the tans, whites,
browns and
oranges of the houses themselves; flashes of bright red or silver or
shiny black
or blue when cars rove through the neighborhood. There are people
too, walking
or jogging or biking or walking their dogs; a few children racing
home for
lunch; a boy skateboarding along the sidewalk.
Each of the
neighborhood
dogs is fully awake now, and they make certain everyone nearby
knows
so. (The trees are awake as well; I
don't think anyone could sleep
through THAT
boisterous barking.)
The frame darkens a bit as the tired sun slips downward on the horizon. As she
descends,
rainbow colors take turns painting the sky and reflecting onto the
mountains in
pastel blues and purples and pinks. The
sun pauses to rest on her
rough rocky
chair, and for just a moment the mountains blaze in sudden glory
and their
faces are rimmed with gold... but the sun can't stop for too long; she
must continue
on her course. The trees and long
prairie grass wave and
whisper
"goodnight," to the retreating sun.
As the world dims into the mists
and shadows
of night, silence reigns. Silence. Then voices, too quiet for any but
the
attentively listening ear, begin an angels' song that drifts down from
between
silver clouds. I hear it (faint through
my window) and gaze up,
longing to
find the source of this heavenly singing; white-silver faces look back
at me from
far off in the depths of the silky blue night sky, and weave a lullaby
through their
song.
In awe of all
that I've seen and heard today, I lay down and close my eyes and dream of the
richness of the world just outside my window.
