Not like it was dawn or near dawn. More like late morning, by the time Michael and I got our shoelaces tied. To expect more than that from a Sunday, if one doesn’t have to, would be wrong. Not that I missed the dawn—that I greeted with both eyes open.
The same can’t be said for this trail side flower. On most days, the lemon yellow, white-centered beauty spreads its arms, faces up and outward, as if to say, “I am lovely, and the day is mine.” Yesterday was not most days. The delicate flower was turned in on itself and closed up lock-tight. Who could blame it? Who could say to a flower that outdoes itself day after day by shining and making the passersby look down and smile, that it ought not take a break on such a morning?
The storm that reigned for two nights running had subsided but neither the wet nor the cold had. Felt like snow might fall momentarily at a slightly higher elevation. There weren’t many people “rustling their stumps,” as my father used to say. The ones who were out, were moving quickly. Not a day for sauntering lazily through the woods, except for when my eye got caught by a small, yellow flower.
I approached slowly. If a fleck of sunshine on a gray day can’t induce reverence, what can? I knelt down next to its fringed petals, wrapped scarf-close against the chill air. Winter’s here.