Dewy Walk

Up at the crack of midday today, or what seemed like it to me, with a sigh. 

On another day, at the crack of dawn, as I did often, I went outside very early to feel the morning air, view the evidence of a long cool night just passed.  Crystalline droplets of dew were still freshly pearled on the slender curving blades of summer grass and foxtails.  I waded through it and saw that each footstep left a story in matted grass and damp earth and I felt as one who is baptised, and God was somehow closer to me then.

On such mornings,  a sheening coat of glistening moisture on every tendril and hair transforms the tiniest details of texture as if they were symbols of the whisperings and sounds of darkness.  It was quiet, always, at that early hour, but the quiet swelled with relief and then renewal. 

The middle kingdom of dawn was one of dew evaporating slowly and quietly, and it faded mysteriously into the unseen realm of vapor and air.  I felt I was walking through a portal from one world to another with heightened senses and a hope that the dew would speak to me, allow me to exist the way it did.  I wanted remants of it to stay with me all day, but all I could do was seek it again in the tiny hours of the next dawn, before the birds sang.