Good Morning

     I live up in the mountains, my house perched near the edge, which gives me a 300-degree view.  Look out one side, and you see the city sprawled out below.  On a clear day you can see landmarks twenty miles away.  Look out the other side, and you see nothing but nature:  Meadows, foothills and mountains all the way to the horizon.

     At night, the city view sparkles with thousands of lights, blotting out the stars.  In summer the lights visibly shimmer in the heat, as if they’re underwater.  The nature view at night is always a sea of black, allowing the stars on that side to sparkle brightly. 

     Standing outside my house, looking one way and then the other, you get the sense you’re straddling the border between the civilized and the primeval, the light and the darkness.  And you might think you know in which direction the border is moving, but up there at night, surrounded by the sounds of the wind howling, the trees creaking, the coyotes calling, the owls hooting and the bugs chirping, while the city silently sleeps, unaware, you're not so sure.

     Early this morning, before the dawn, I stumbled out of bed and into the shower and looked out the window towards the city and saw darkness where I used to see lights.  Was it raining?  I looked up and saw stars, so it couldn’t be.  In fact, I couldn’t remember ever seeing the stars above the city before.  Had the power gone out?  Not likely over an entire city.

     As I gazed out the window, looking for some sign of life, it occurred to me that this was how it looked from up here at night before the city.  And this is how it will look after the city.  Total darkness below while the stars shine above.  Had the border shifted while I slept?  Or disappeared?

     I showered and watched the sun rise, a huge orange ball slowly growing over the horizon, revealing a blanket of thick fog covering the city, its tendrils curling up around the hills below, stopping just short of my house.  I stood there in the shower, hot water streaming down my back, the first rays warming my face, just me and the sun, while the city slept on in the darkness below.

     See also "A Room With a View" (Oct. 25, 2004).

Comments

[R J Keefe]

And then there's the dualism of your being naked, but within the highly protective environment of a modern bathroom.

[MindSpin]

Thank you for view and vision, rendered to make the seeing ours, too.

[Quicquid]

Marine layer is a strange thing. Many of the mornings I spent in Highland Park began that way, with a foreigner's uncertainty whether the sun would ever emerge.