Don’t Blink

Wake Up and Get Outside
     There tends to be one point in the year, for me, when I wake up and feel the frost on the grass before I look out the window. With the illustrious light bulbs sparking in my head, I don my boots and fleece, grab my bag and thermos and head outside with a purpose. On these fateful mornings, it is not yet light out. The normal weights that call me back to bed as I drag them across the floor suddenly are leading the way to my front door. As I pass, the walls remind me that all else is to become much less accessible in the near future.
     On these days, I tend to do what I may not be able to in a couple of months. I may throw on my tennis shoes and jog. I may jump on my bike, click on my light and peddle off. I may jump in my car and drive down to the river for a hike.
     The banks of the river, silhouetted by the dawn, awaiting the stirring of the ever waning sun, tell me stories. Sipping my hot tea, alone, I wander through the summer, the spring, last winter, the first winter I can remember, the people I know. The river tells me that nothing lasts, there are no moments frozen in time, even memories are subject to change. The river tells me, this is beauty.
     Over the ridge, the sun appears. The air is cold, but the sun warms me, from my eyes down. The sun tells me: Don’t blink, or you’ll miss the show.