For forty-some years now I have always been the first awake. The first dressed. The first out the door. Dawn has always called to me urgently. The moment my eyes open, I want the sky, the new air. It's second nature for me to slide from bed like a bright quiet snake, open and close doors as silently as any thief, and make for the morning air.
I walk through the webs that never-discouraged spiders have thrown across the sidewalks. I consider the cloudscape or starscape, or greet the rain with my tousled head. Automatically I find the moon and the planets, if it's clear. Check for the stars that have borne me company in evil times. Capella. Sirius. Vega above all, my watch-star. These days I scan the northeast horizon eagerly hoping to see Vega's first rising of the year. But I always miss it. The first time I see Vega in the Spring it's always a surprise. She always has a sly grin, that first time. Way higher in the sky than she should be. "I got past you again, little mammal! You'll never catch me, you know." I know. If I ever did catch her, what would I do? Dig myself a grave, I guess, and lie down in it.
Smell of wet grass and earth, tree-seed and pavement oil.
Celestials and non-celestials, rejoice! The spirit of awakening is precious. May it arise in whom it has not arisen; once arisen may it not diminish, but ever increase and flourish.