That’s the view from my back door, just before the sun slipped above the horizon.
I’m not a morning person. I’ve been saying so since my teenage years, when theater and parties and exciting books kept me busy until midnight and beyond. My night owl ways were reinforced by parenthood, when I couldn’t possibly get up earlier than my “up with the sun” son but could manage to write in the dark hours after he’d gone to bed.
But over the last two years, I have somehow transitioned into a morning person. Waking between five and six has become common, and sleeping past seven is the rarity. Evidence of this change can be seen in the numerous sunrise photos I’ve taken since last spring. As someone who usually saw the sun come up only if I’d stayed up all night, the novelty of awakening to rosy-gold light hasn’t yet waned.