It is the weekend and yet my eyes are wide open before the sun even shifts its golden shoulder. I hear a rushing noise outside the window in that velvet darkness. I am curious and pull back the covers and and flick on the deck lighting to find that it is the wind pushing a nice soaking rain across the deck. Everything is shiny wet and when I open the door it smells of good earth.
This gentle sprinkle lasts a short time and I crawl back into the softness of the bed and open one of the many books on the nightstand arguing with myself about whether to make coffee this early. I am just getting into the good part about whether the friends will remember each other after all these years, when I hear a rhythmic bird song, ever so gentle but close.
I once again walk to the window and see a portly wren sitting on the gridded table and with his head tilted to the sky communicating something with the great night. He gently repeats the same short call and then begins like a wind-up toy to hop around the table, pause and cheep, and then continue his hopping and follow with the cheeping.
Was he confused by my deck lighting? Does he do this most mornings regardless of my artificial sunrise? Is this some celebration because the rain has washed more insects his way? Is this an 'after-bath' ritual.
Eventually the gray dawn spreads and the little wren flies onto to the other activities of his day.