January Sunrise

The other morning, I had some extra time on my hands. For whatever fortuitous reason, I had a full 15 minutes to squander on my way to the office.

Not wishing to waste them idling in line at a fast-food joint for fat, salt laden food I really didn’t need, I opted to take a more scenic route. Rather than turning right from the state route to another state route, I took the way less travelled, and turned left.

Pink, purple, and salmon tinged the ridges in Geauga County on the horizon. The newly fallen snow reflected back the most subtle of rose-colored hues as it exalted in the dawn of a new day. While down shifting the Jeep, I turned onto the park roadway.  No plows had disturbed the clean, white/rose surface of the road.

With the driver’s window partially open, the crisp winter air awakened my senses. There! A small herd of deer moving silently out of the wood line to browse in the first light of day stared while I motored past.  A coyote darted from the bridle path into the protection of the deeper woods.  The cries of blue jays mingled with the songs of wrens to proclaim the sunrise.

Intrigued, I watched as the trees, darkened and in shadow, became clad in the most delicate shade of gold, from the topmost branches  and down their trunks. The early morning, low-angle rays of light painted the eastern facing trees a brilliant color, while their westward sides were yet in darkness. While one could (and I did) draw any number of theological analogies to this, I assured myself the westward side of the tree would be in the light soon enough. A fact to which more theological analogies could be drawn; but I was too engrossed in merely enjoying the sunrise to ponder those.

The Jeep curled about, up and down hills, across streams, and through tall stands of Ponderosa pines. Past the frozen pond, and along the large meadow, we puttered. Finally, the roadway leading to the side road which eventually leads to near proximity of the airport and my office was before us.

To turn, or not to turn; that was the question. The siren song of my fishing rods and small tackle box called to me, singing of a certain little tributary to the Chagrin; a little tributary which probably held some lazy, hungry trout.

Alas, the light-hearted melody of the stream was overwhelmed by a louder, more powerful Wagnerian style opus extolling the virtues of work, receiving a paycheck, and keeping a roof over our heads. With a sigh of resignation, the Jeep and I made the turn.

We continued westward. As I drove past mega offices for a large insurance company, newer homes, and such; in my mind’s eye I saw the truck farms, orchards, and horse breeding facilities of my youth which once lined this curving roadway.

Glancing in the mirror, the sky to the east was now a cobalt blue, with the merest streaks of orange, pink and yellow.

It was going to be a good day; a very good day.