I've gotten into a habit over the past autumn and winter. I was going to say a "bad" habit, but then I changed my mind. Because I am happily retired, my time is completely my own, and if I want or need to stay up later working on a poem or my current manuscript, and then sleep in late in the morning, no one really cares, except possibly the cats. But I slept well all last night. No rolling over a half dozen times, turning on the flashlight, groping for the pen and tiny notebook, or worse yet, jotting something down in the dark that will look like automatic spirit writing in the light of day. And no rising, padding my way down the hall to the computer, blink and rubbing my eyes with my knuckles.
This morning I was up quite literally before the birds, and so was able to witness (and photograph) something I hadn't seen for quite some time - morning stealing softly into my little cottage-house. I realize
that over the winter months I've traded the noiseless movement of sunlight, the silent dancing rainbows made by sun-catchers in the porch window, for nights in front of a glowing screen with only the soft snoring of a cat to gently distract me. Or maybe gently aid me. Now that spring is here again, I can feel my inner circadian rhythms changing. It's not like I didn't know it will happen, but it still surprises and delights me every year.
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