Before I lived on my mountain, on the same level as the sky, and with no need for curtains to hide it from my view at night, I thought sunsets were the big blockbuster event of the sky’s day.
Now I realise I rarely saw a sunrise except at the beach, when that enormous red orb popping out of the horizon is indeed amazing.
But in the city, my sleep ended by loud alarm clock rather than silent dawn, for decades I was deprived of this spectacular show.
The windows beside my bed here are set low, so from my morning pillow I can watch the first lightening of the sky beyond the black filigree of the treeline.
If there are clouds, their early grey begins to be edged, then flushed, with the softest rose pink; the grey becomes lilac.
There ought to be violins.
Within seconds that maiden blush has taken fire, a hectic gypsy tarantella of gold and orange. Fiddles do play, feet stamp and skirts swirl.
But it is so fleeting.
Soon dull daylight steps briskly into place, unimaginative, up front, to set the workaday world in action. Time to get up and go rake some horse manure, I suppose. But what a way to start the day!
And if I’m good, maybe they’ll put on another show tomorrow?
