My alarm went off at 4:00 this morning; we were on the road by 5:00. Even with my dry eyes and lack of adequate rest, I was filled with pre-dawn energy.
As the miles rolled under my tires, I was alive with the beautiful stillness of the day, and I managed to save a few thoughts on my voice recorder while the children slept:
The deep navy night is being pushed out into space by the purple hues of a cresting dawn.
Behind every pair of slow-moving headlights sits a smug driver who realizes, no matter how tired, that he is among the disciplined elite who will experience this magic of the morning.
As the horizon turns to shades of rose, the earth quietly reaches its peak in beauty and yields to the busyness of the day.
The fog still hovers in the fields.
Then the golds emerge, illuminating sides of barns and farmhouses across the landscape and creating a bright background for the still black foliage.
The ghostly fog vanishes into the day, like spirits afraid of being caught in the light.
Finally, the fireball is in sight, warming the earth and climbing to its post in the sky.