I was up early enough one morning last week to watch the sun rise. The day followed an unseasonably mild one, and the air was still heavy with the moisture that keeps temperatures more elevated than they normally would be this time of year. The trees swayed in a strong breeze, and crows flew between and above their tops, crying out their morning greeting to the world.
A thick, double band of night-gray clouds lay that day upon what bit of horizon I could see, broken only by a narrow strip of bright, white light reaching up the earth’s side from the east. Below the clouds, the sky was golden, and this first light painted their edges in various values of pinks and mauves. Then, as it is wont to do, the sun appeared, at first a diminutive pinpoint of blinding orange light that grew to a bright golden orb between the branches. The mauves and pinks faded from the cloud bank, replaced by the sharp, clean, silvery lines of reflected sunlight.
In the deep woods, a sunrise manifests itself differently than it does over the ocean, an open field or city rooftops. It begins by peeking through the densely woven vegetation, then widens as it creeps upward through the more widely spaced tree tops before bursting into its full and magnificent radiance in the open sky.
It would seem that, with so much going on at dawn, this process would be slow and favor the viewer, giving us time to look away or to humor a casual distraction. In actuality, it all takes place within the space of a few minutes at best, and one must be quick with a camera to be able to capture the spectacle, and even quicker with a pencil or brush to be able to transfer this magnificence to paper or canvas.
Watching the sun rise or set is a lot like bird-watching or scanning the night sky for treasures. Patience is key, but we are more often than not rewarded for our efforts. While some days drag on due to what seems like a never-ending pattern of insipid weather, one thing is always certain: It will change, and eventually, the sun will rise, wiping out all memory of the gray, maudlin days.
The sky is awash with light now, and the cloud bank but a memory. The sun’s face shifts like a hologram as the wind whips the trees into a frenzy. Faithful and sure, it has risen on yet another day, one that almost surely promises visual rewards, even at this bleak time of year, for those who know where and when to look and who have the time and steadfastness to see the performance through to the end.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
