0545. July the 1st.
Holding my breath. Listening.
Nothing but inky blues, absorbing all traces of sound.
The chatter of nocturnal lives; the eerie mountain calls, give way to a poised hush.
Shadow shaped promises of dawn… boxed and stacked…. awaiting delivery.
Anticipation rises as night secrets prepare to melt and evaporate.
Suspension of thought hangs from the great rafters of this ancient house.
The entire small animal kingdom lies in wait. Listening. A tremendous, silent, listening.
Birds large and small, cicadas, cockerels, myriad insects, even the ‘pad-pad’ of tiny gecko feet on the wall next to me, awaiting their greatest chorus. Their dawn chorus.
One by one, objects line up in my basket.
Pen, camera, lenses, notebook, flask, apple, cloth.
A delicious (mostly inedible) picnic.
A nerdy, necessary, classical collection.
The family sleeps and I delight in my other-ness at this hour.
I am no-one’s but my own.
My footsteps reach silently over the threshold, into the inky-ness.
Taking my place, right up on the roof, I sit and watch and wait for the clamour, the clatter, the incredible din that is the coming of dawn.