A Deep River Year
September 24, 2014   

Now it is dark here, at 6 a.m.   Though it still feels like night, an internal alarm clock goes off inside me.   I stir, then pull myself to my feet, get dressed and head downstairs to begin this new day.  I am a keeper of routines.   For me, the daily rounds are as comforting as the ancient holy offices of the monastics.     I do not call my morning practices elegant names like matins and lauds, but they sustain me in much the same way.   I am comforted by the predictable framework that has stitched my life together through years of change.   I open the front door, step out to pick up the daily newspaper  and wish the world well.   Inside again, I turn on the coffee pot, which is a signal to the cats that food is coming.   They weave in and out of my path as I jingle the leashes in an attempt to call the dogs for their walk.   They come, but reluctantly, in these darker mornings. 

Our morning walk may take many different routes.  Sometimes the two dogs and I set out across the ball field and the path through the sand pits.   It is overgrown now, and my pants get wet going that way.   We may follow the railroad tracks along the cove, or go for a run in the old cemetery on top of the hill where a beautiful herald angel atop a tall pillar faces east to watch the sun rise.  Often in the dark mornings we stay on the sidewalks in the center of town, where streetlights show the way.   That’s what we did this morning.

Along this circuit a bus stops in front of the pharmacy in the darkness, and waits a minute as if somebody might show up for a ride.   A white pickup turns into the driveway of the doughnut shop.   Down the street the lights from inside the corner restaurant reveal a bald man in a leather jacket alone at the counter, bent over a steaming mug of coffee.   We turn down a side street, and the noise of the Main St. traffic suddenly falls away.   We walk together into the soft whir of crickets and the whisper of a breeze.   This morning’s quiet is the prize, the gift, of such early rising.  It is the silent smile of a day’s possibility, the wordless invocation of gratitude, my matins.

Morning Walk

They take me down familiar streets,
suddenly straining at the other end of leashes
for an elusive scent in long grass
or the provocative bark of a distant dog.
I breathe deep, too,
as if there might be something hidden
waiting to be noticed
in these hills and roads of home.
In a comforting window a light goes on,
and I look away as if to avoid intruding
on some intimate awakening.
This quiet time is lovely, healing.
I would not barge into a day without this time,
this tender place--a hollow of expectancy
where something may yet be born,
or an idea rise and circle for a while, like a bird,
or a remembered song of joy stir to life.
So we head into dawn,
looking for something to surprise us:
a tennis ball hiding in the grass,
a heron skimming the treetops,
a runner circling the streets in neon pink shoes,
a crimson leaf flickering by the pond,
like a flame.

--Timothy Haut, September 24, 2014