When darkness comes.
After the time change in November the already fading daylight quickens leaving most all of us complaining about the onslaught of night long before we are ready, as early as 3:30 in the afternoon in the farther north regions of the lower forty eight.
What’s less often mentioned is the early beginning of daylight. I find myself restlessly awakening at 5 or even 4 a.m. as first light shows in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean. The house is cold at this hour, reflecting the deep chill seeping through the walls and windows. It’s far too early to rise from the bed, far too early to crank up the heat. It’s so much cheaper and more energy efficient to confine the heating to the bed itself, to stay tucked and toasty in that tiny space for as long as possible. Staying in bed of course is possible in retirement, when not only do I not have to go to work but I also can set appointments for later in the day.
You’d think that staying tucked under the covers would be delightful but the truth is that the situation involves tight cocooning, the air is so chilled an arm attempting to hold a book or an iPhone means a really cold appendage.
Restless under the covers I watch the light play among whatever clouds are on the horizon, first in black and grays, and as the sun nears the horizon the first color begins to show, the intensity of it most dramatic in the earliest stages of rising. Sometimes in that early darkness the lights of a boat headed out to sea resembles an illuminated ball without detail. How cold is it out there moving across the water?
Almost every morning seascape is a vast horizontal painting, a 180 degree view, but the thought of warm feet hitting the icy floor keeps me watching wrapped in blankets. The camera sits on the desk neglected and chilled.