My Sunshine Hours

I still rise around four in the morning, and I still enjoy a sip before dawn. And the time itself is one of stillness, and solitude. It’s not a big cup, but the coffee is black and strong, the way I knew I’d love it even in my childhood, long before I’d tasted of the miraculous bean. The cedar is now large enough to walk under, instead of having to go around. Two seasons ago, a new family of scrub-jays was born several flights up, hidden entirely by the tree’s dense growth, and only discernible by their sound — until, one day, out flew the little ones, after which silence reigned for a short while. Squirrels leap from the edge of the roof into the tree, not particular how or where they land, as if arrival and departure are one and the same thing. Juncos hop about on the outward layers, scattering raindrops jeweled by the sun. Robins, towhees — yet now this lush miracle is grown so tall it is shading our garden space across the driveway, as are the neighbor’s fir trees from another direction. There are still sunshine hours, but they lessen a bit each year. And here I think, Let me make my own sunshine hours, for my arrival and departure are one and the same thing. Am I young? Am I old? Where are you, my love?

[ 1963 ]