Predawn Anatomy

The horizon is now skeletal, this early winter, this December morning. These early visions disappear in moments, never to return in exactly the same form. Five minutes after I shivered on the back deck, metal camera raised to my face, the color was washed away, the sun closer to the day, our North Carolina day. As far as I know, the sun is not aware of this planet that rolls so deliciously in its bath of light and warmth. Deliciously as if it were all play, a planet only now waking to gratitude and care for this gift given so freely - without ceasing - for billions of years.
Now, a bit later, the sun is up. The grass sparkles with frost diamonds; the comfrey slumps, its large furry leaves frozen in a pile, like sleeping, satisfied lovers. I have broken the ice on the bird baths; the squirrels have made their way - again - to the feeders despite all the impediments. I shall open the cold frames a bit later, to give the greens a more direct drink of light and to allow them to breathe. Oddly, closed in their glass box, a winter sun through below-freezing air can roast them as surely as could July. July is not their friend. July would be lethal. So Mama needs to pay attention. . .a calling to be sure. . .