My favorite kind of morning happens in late summer, when the sun is still rising early due to daylight saving time and the sun hasn't yet had its coffee. It's cool but not cold, still full of summer, and everything feels like it's just rained even if it hasn't.
There's a certain smell about it that reminds me of going to camp with my grandpa as a kid. I'd wake up in the cabin, next to which the camper had been parked, push open the door, and walk out towards where the fire had been.
It's the deep and enveloping smell of dirt and dew and gravel parting under my tennis shoes. It's the heavy blanket of mist and dampness held close about the earth: the world waking up after a long nap still hot and sticky with sweat under the bedsheets.
That smell, that perfluence of aromas and gathering of old memories, always makes me expect to see that same salamander, bright and orange, that I found underneath the camper that one morning.
Above all, it's quiet. I mean the kind of quiet that you get in the suburbs, with the shush of cars along the pavement in the distance and the neighbor's dog barking. But it still feels quiet and close and personal.
It's the kind of morning where I just want to take in as many slow, lazy breaths as I can as I swim through the thick atmosphere and feel the occasional whispering breeze sliding through my shirt sleeves, up one arm and down the other.
Just a pity those mornings only last for such a short space of time, before the world turns cold once again.
Peace,
JT
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