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The sun has not yet risen, but I have.

I step outside with my second cup of morning inspiration and the sounds that greet me are of no alarm clock, only nature. 

My cats stealthily sneak around the carport. Birds are beginning to sing, silent through a short-lived winter and now sound busy and urgent with their chirping as though they are saying, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!”

I can see without the aid of a light, the first hints of sunrise peeking from over the horizon. A purplish gray glow making the trees silhouettes for just another few moments.

My phone is not ringing. No emails are chiming. No voices are breaking the silence. Just the birds.

My mind stirs, attempting to go into preparation mode for the day.

It requires effort to just still it. Just stop. I have a little longer. I’m absorbing the stillness of the moment, intentionally, purposefully. Allowing it to penetrate my soul and lift it above the noise that will inevitably be all too real again before this hour is gone.

I awoke too early. Shortly after 4 a.m. I stirred, unable to sleep again. I rose and drank my coffee, and read a story. And wrote a thousand in my head. 

A writer’s mind is never still unless it is forced to be.

Mornings like this one will do that, which is why they are cherished. A gift. Even when they awaken me from much-needed rest.

The cats become restless and want breakfast. I interrupt my pause and pour them some food and now the sky is turning pink. 

The reverie is fading quickly as day breaks. A magic seemingly lost as fast as the outside security light goes into hibernation for another day. Switched off. 

Except for the part that I, for all too short of a time, soaked into myself. That bit of enchantment is still within. I will carry it with me today, cherishing and thankful. For one moment of stillness can breathe hours of peace into a restless mind.