I've never been a morning person. I have always been one to hit snooze ten times, to stay under the warm covers as long as possible, to hold in a sneeze so as not to open my eyes and look for the kleenex.
But I have learned, at the late age of 39, that no one else is around in the mornings. It's really quiet. Everybody is hibernating in their snuggly beds. It's cold. And it's really quiet. Did I say quiet? Mornings are quiet. I don't get to do quiet much anymore. Quiet. Quiet and lovely. We've been having such pretty skies in the early mornings of this fall.
The oatmeal is warm, the coffee is milky, and the light is rose-lavender-periwinkle. Sometimes I can see the fishing boats coming in from the night's work.
And it's quiet. Did I mention that part?