Daisies in the Grass

I stepped out at 5am this morning and crossed the lawn barefoot. A streetlight still burned faintly beyond the fence. The hedges around me remained dark, their shadows deep green, but the sky above had begun to lighten, almost translucent. It felt as though my feet still belonged to the night while my head belonged already to the light.

The cold grass seeded into my skin like little knives while the breeze carried steam from my tea around me, as though I held a small censer of incense. A blackbird was singing to the half dawn.

The world feels unmade at 5am. Everything possible and, at the same time, nothing entirely real. The stillness. The last gasp of night.

I set my tea down and lay flat on the grass, looking up at the too-light sky above the too-dark garden. Turning my head, I noticed a bright clump of daisies somehow still luminous in the half-light. From this angle, they seemed strangely brave to have planted themselves there in the open, surrounded by such a wide expanse of green. I could see how small they were, how vulnerable.

I preferred looking sidelong at the daisies to staring directly into that vast brightening sky. I already knew it was going to be another warm day.

Anything feels possible at 5am. The day has not yet decided what it will become. So I lie still a little longer, feeling the cold earth beneath me, waiting for the light to drain the last bruised shadows away.