Stars begin a westward retreat.
There is no Sea breeze and the silhouettes of the Palm Trees stand in quiet attention.
A lone bird sings, "Morning has broken."
All is calm ... the greyness is turning bright.
It's 5 am and I'm sitting naked on the Beloved Back Deck with my feet propped on my writing table underneath a red umbrella in a chair with extra pillows covered by a blue beach towel.
"Hey Goddess," I say to our dog snoring under the table, "Here comes the Sun."
When I can't sleep, stumble outside on the deck and Goddess always follows to make certain I don't do anything stupid.
A car roars down the street and I hear the thud of a newspaper hitting the ground.
Nothing's bothering me ... my eyes just popped open at 5 am and, according to Sarah, I kept her up the other night tossing and turning because ... allegedly ... I had too much wine ... and I don't want to risk the wrath of my beautiful pregnant wife ... so here I sit.
I don't mind.
It's actually quite stunning witnessing the labor pains of a new day's birth ... the quiet is deafening ... tranquility leaves tingles and I rub my bare shoulders.
My thoughts are interrupted as Goddess paws the sliding glass doors telling me it's time to come back inside.
Stumbling back to bed, I hold sleeping Sarah grateful for the last delicious morsels of this dying night.
