The morning sun has barely broken the horizon when we emerge from the darkness below to see ourselves surrounded by the placid sea. A sight I have become familiar with, and yet at the same time, always find intriguingly new. Always a different picture, a new story told to each dawning day.
On one day the waters may be so calm that the large windmills stand admiring themselves in the their own reflection while the wings barely turn under the sleeping wind. And on another it is gripped by such fury that it sounds like a roar when waves pound one another, the water grayish-green and whipped to a frenzy beneath us.
Every day has its own face upon the sea, and I have come to think of it in terms of a promise – or perhaps more accurately, a prediction. The story of the day foretold as I travel past – and through – on the way to start my day.
This particular day awakens in a glorious moment immobilised in time and shrouded in white frost and golden sun. The dance of seasons coming and going, of winter’s fall and spring’s undaunted revival. Watched by the gentle sea with muted interest, its own slumber not quite over yet.
Then we leave it behind and move inland again. The sun casts its light and budding warmth over the frozen lands. Beautiful blues and flaming orange. Colours are returning, and with them… all that has laid dormant and waiting. This is what I mean about promise. “Thaw!”, the sun beckons softly to the ear of the still sleeping world. And the world complies, slowly, heeding the call it has longed for since the first snow.
In a field a white-tailed deer breaks the illusion of a dawn frozen in time, as it emerges from a cluster of trees. Soon it will be gone, busy with whatever white-tailed deer do on early March mornings. But for now we both take a moment to listen to the promise of today. A “weather report” of sorts I suppose one might say.
It’s looking rather good so far…