Awoke, stumbled into shoes and out the door early enough to walk with the last bit of the sunrise.

A bike burred past me, and there were few enough cars on the street I could hear the clockwork ticking of his gearing down the street, over the rise in the road.

Someone had been sick on the sidewalk. A sure sign the summer season is here, even if the weather demanded three layers and light gloves; would have welcomed my neck gaiter; watched my breath the whole time; witness the grass rimed with frost.

In the cemetery, the birds roost preferentially in the trees nearest the street. They were riotous with spring song. A Grand Central Station cacophony blurring their calls into dense foreground crackling. In the trees further along I heard the woodpeckers.

Pre-mornings are an inescapable stamp on my existence. Genetics and my father’s habit. Acquaintance with the dawn used to be a forced march. Now, anywhere near a city it is the only time I like for itself. A silence truly gilded.

I was forced out of bed by a dream I could feel melting, Dali-like into a nightmare. And once up, my typical mild meander toward consciousness seemed unbearably heavy. So I walked outside to grab lungfuls of the day’s first air; hover in the sadness and confusion of the broken dream state. It broke the fear that had been mounting.It brought the whirr to life of my internal difference engine.

On my last lap a rabbit ran before me, hopping off to bed. He paused at such an angle before a headstone –HIGGINS WILLDON– he appeared to be reading it, recalling them. ‘Good folk. Nice garden. No dogs.’ The sun was just above the horizon then, huge and bronze, laying radiant paths between the trees. “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”


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