Light of the Morning

If anyone was ever truly breath taken, I am now. It’s some combination of waking early enough for it to be yesterday and the naturally grand nature of flying. Delirium from sleep deprivation and fear of heights is working out nicely for me. Great poetry is born of times like this.

There’s nothing like catching an early flight. There’s nothing like taking off in the idle of the night and plunging through the clouds into the next day. When you mix uncertain things like time and air travel, it’s disorienting. And I love it.

Three things account for what I’m seeing now: the Coriolis effect, the tilt of the earth in January, and our destination of Atlanta. We’re flying straight into the sunrise, straight into it. On my side of plane, there’s a growing strip of pale blue light, but not enough to reveal whether the clouds we’re certainly flying over are the ocean’s waves, the Sahara’s dunes, or the Arctic icebergs. Could be anything, really. Could be a cumulus cruise ship sailing beneath us. Could be some nightmarish creature for a science-fiction film. No one’s awake to say otherwise.

The sunrise is everywhere, is everything. The brush stroke of color where the clouds kiss the sky, that’s where the sun will be, any moment now. Then it’s there, saying good morning. The light is pink and piercing, and its rising so fast that I can see it move. I know you’re not supposed to look at the sun, but I can’t help it. First it is a flicker, then everything is sun, everything is shining. I wouldn't care if I went blind if this was the last thing I saw.

I’m flying 10,000 feet above the ground, and the only baggage I have is stowed above me in a squat red suitcase. The rest I left behind. Everything is clear up here. Everything is okay. Nothing else exists except the sun and the light and the new day, and it’s easy to pretend nothing else matters. I’m listening to Cristofori’s dream by David Lanz, Dearly Beloved from Kingdom Hearts and our choir’s performance of Light of a Clear Blue Morning.

I can see the light of a clear blue morning.

I can see the light of a clear blue morning.

Now everything is one hundred shades of white and a thousand different textures. This must be where the angels live.