WHEN night is almost done,~Emily Dickinson
And sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the spaces,
It ’s time to smooth the hair
And get the dimples ready, 5
And wonder we could care
For that old faded midnight
That frightened but an hour.
The morning sky is tinged deep blue. Dawn hasn’t yet breached the eastern horizon. The balance is just beginning to tilt toward autumn. Days are shortening. It seems to happen so quickly–a month ago, wouldn’t the sun have risen by now?
I find myself growing impatient for the sunrise. Suddenly, somehow, we are already in that part of the year when sunlight begins to seem precious, a resource not to be wasted for a second. Though the fall equinox is still weeks away, autumn hovers on every shaft of golden afternoon light, plays in the golding leaves of the walnuts and the brown-crinkled edges of the oaks. The fawns who were born in the woods this spring are losing their sun-dapple spots–they won’t need them when the leaves have fled and the sun is scarcer.
Soon the sun will rise and night will slip away into the busy forgetfulness of day. Soon the heat of summer will be a memory only.