June 05 2009 Through The Palpable Obscure

There are few occasions in my married, mothering life where I get to experience a morning to myself. I had a handful when I went to Michigan, and they were awkward and absurd. Since I was a child I was a morning person, thrilled at the sun's dusky rays across the cloudy sky, creeping towards the ground after first traveling into an unknown indefinite distance; whispers from the tops of trees to the bottoms and then to my feet. Nothing is silent in the morning, but it is quieter than dusk.

My Fridays have become worthy of the Happy greeting I once attached to the day's name. I have a morning student across the valley and the travel is peaceful and the work is good. There is something about roses where there are a lot of them this time of year, more than I've noticed in years previous. The road ahead bends across as an overpass and throws me headlong into a view of the cascade on the side of the Grand Mesa. In a moment, it is gone and I am buried in the trees of the valley. Unlike the world where I grew up, the sunlight has a definite distance point before catching the tops of the trees and reaching the earth to warm it: it is a valley.



I took an unknown number of pictures saving only a few on the cell phone. I did manage to buy batteries today so I will be back to a more photogenic photo. This machine did not do this view justice.