My feet hit the floor at 4:21 this morning, and I felt a surge of gratitude toward the cat who acknowledged me with a low, specific purr, "Yes, I let you sleep in, but don't get used to it." Leaving my husband sleeping quietly behind, I have come downstairs to begin the morning routine. I feed Miss Tammietta. She examines her kibble, then goes to the kitchen door with another expectant purr and I let her out. One minute later, she's back inside having breakfast.
I have a friend who gets up every morning at this time. Her forebearers are from an old village settled in the early 1600s on the coast of Maine. She is such that I can imagine her, leaving her family sleeping peacefully, beginning her day by thinking with intent on the day ahead. Had she been born in an earlier century, she would have stood in her kitchen and turned her mind to binding the rugged Maine coast against any storm that could lash it asunder. My friend is such that she could probably call up a strengthening, binding spell upon need.
The clock has struck 5 a.m., and in minutes, when it is light, I will hit the pavement and walk over to Culler Lake. I walked through the park Sunday evening, when all of Frederick seemed gathered at Baker Park for a concert, those who were not walking their dogs, or jogging or picnicking with their families near the city swimming pools. The town was alive with robust enjoyment of a perfect, near-Solstice evening.
I went to the trees at the end of Culler Lake and saw that people had gathered beneath them and were taking photos at eye level. The young night herons were displaying themselves. These charmers are still quite young, with immature feathering still, but for baby birds, they are sturdy little things, quite larger than footballs, and poised in the gnarled intertwined branches of the trees, perfectly safe from their many admirers.
My friend Nannette told me that her husband counted nine young birds this year, and she can hear their raucous calls from her own house near the lake. In a few minutes, I will return to the stand of trees to visit the birds.
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