Magic Morning

I opened for business at 5:18 a.m. today.
The window blind went up, revealing the magic
world that never changes and always changes.
Almost golden clouds, still and placid, suspended
lightly in the eastern sky, prepared to explode
in color as soon as the sun decided to climb over the mountain.

A large, white-bloomed oleander barely moved
in a very discreet breeze, the happy sun-face with
three little bells attached at the bottom, smiled from
its place, suspended from an oleander limb.
Beyond the face, two hummingbirds argued over the
same purple penstemon, and the street was empty.

It was peaceful.

Soon, though, the gentle morning will be overwhelmed
by wave after wave of life's necessities.  Dogs will scratch
and sniff, pull at their leashes, irritated that their owners
would stop for conversation.  Exercise walkers, shoulders
back, heads up will stride into physical excellence.  A woman
on a three-wheeled cycle will come barreling around the
corner, her large black dog pulling her around the block.
Next the serious cyclists, helmets and tight fitting
jerseys atop narrow wheeled $1,000 bikes will come
rolling down steep driveways and be off to a
20-mile challenge.  And, finally, an assortment of
cars will emerge from garages and putter off
to places beyond this little world.

Morning is magic.

It comes to life the same way every day, but no
two days are exactly alike.  Looking through the
magic window is a challenge to spot the little
variations, uniqueness among the sameness.
Perhaps that's the key.   I fear the day
when the score card lists only sameness
inning after inning, the disappearance of difference.
No runs, no hits, no errors.
Grab a hotdog.
Go home.

The game is over.