I seek to see the sunrise most mornings.
It’s one of my favorite parts of the day. It offers gentle but unstoppable hope.
Many early mornings in Manchester are beautiful. It’s strange, the weather can turn disgusting a few hours later, but there’s beauty just before and after the sun rises.
From season to season, the intensity changes as well.
It’s March now, and the colors are subdued, still hiding from the cold. There’s a gradient that starts at the horizon, interrupted only by roof lines and TV antennas, muted oranges fade to pale blues as the glow rises.
This particular morning, there’s a stillness. Even the leafless trees stand like statues, lifeless crowds’ hands outstretched, boney fingers reaching towards the glow.
Life at this time is hidden. Houses like thoughts are holding, dissecting, and combining our lives. One, in a row, in a postcode, hidden, like veins holding our days.
We all are held sleeping or stirring or awake.
The glow—outside—intensifies.