This morning was an odd one for my usual routine. Not much deviated, but the atmosphere upon opening my eyes was different- I don’t know how exactly to explain it, but I felt suspiciously calm, not thinking about how much time I had to get ready. It was 5:55 AM when I woke up, but instead of begrudgingly pulling myself out of bed, I just laid and stared. Minutes ticked by, and when I got up after 6:11, I thought: “I’m going to have to rush like all HECK.”
But I didn’t, and I didn’t feel rushed either. Against the notions of my brain, I had time left while I waited for my family. I looked outside my windows, heard some noises, and decided to spend my free time standing in the driveway with my journal. I hadn’t ever decided to write so early in the morning, and though balancing my journal on my arm to keep my writing steady was troublesome, it was a fulfilling experience. The excerpt below is what I wrote during that time, this very morning. Some small edits have been made to make things more coherent.
Sounds of the Rising Sun
The metalworker is in their workshop this morning, the sounds of clinging metal and skittering chains reaching my ears. I hear them activate the saw again and again, three seconds of silence in between before the scraping resumes like clockwork. There’s a masculine, adult voice shouting at something to my left- my guess is that they’re two houses down, but their voice rides the wind with ease. I can’t make out their words, but they shout in the stern, gruff, warning way one would shout at a misbehaving child or dog. Their voice rings out like a bark: heavy at the beginning and swooping up at the end. When I visualize it, I see it as a sharp punch of sound breaking the air. A cluster of birds swim through the sky above, their bubbly chirps alerting me of their arrival. They sound like colorful dots popping against my tongue and ears, and I can almost see those dots bouncing around them as they fly. Their asymmetrical forms gracefully cut through the fog, their shadowy silhouettes melding with the dark treetops. They take their poppy tweets with them as they leave my line of sight, but another flock flies not far behind. They’re smaller, their voices just as bouncy, and they chitter a similar chorus. Their departure brings my attention to the mist-shrouded lake they flew by. In the fog, the wooden posts of my neighbor’s unfinished dock appear as abandoned, alien monoliths. For a moment there is no noise, and I think about the hoofprints in the lakeside, the dying porch ferns by my feet, and the swamp-tree saplings bordering the right side of the pond. The unexpected rustling of branches snaps me out of my thoughts, and I turn around in search of the noise’s cause. It was so quick, so sudden, that I almost think I never heard it. I think, “It’ll be another memory that washes away with the day.” The crinkled brown leaves I see fall tell me otherwise, though- that noise wasn’t figment of imagination. I hear no squirrels amongst the trees and no birds perching overhead, but I do hear the twist and click of the front door lock. The weather strips squeal as they’re pushed apart from one another, the motion making the automatic light flick on. My mother is here, my sibling is in the car, and it’s time to go to school.