He said last night that every morning, just after dawn, commercial fishermen returned to the harbor here, unloading their catch. Here, where the sun first crests the island’s horizon.
This is Homer’s rose-red dawn whose fingers gather pink ribbons followed by shining gold streaks. These fingers, however, do not caress. They are not gentle. Instead, a chill, stiff breeze blows surrounding trees so that they rush with it. All around, every surface is sodden with dew. Cranes arch graceful necks in the shallows, then gather and fly overhead like black arrows sent to battle. Jets leave distant, silent trails.
One car drives past.
A man walks straight and solitary on the next dock.
The sun has cleared the treetops and casts lines of fire across the water, moving so slowly as to look stationary, but constant enough to leave the horizon increasingly behind.
The earth still turns, this sun declares, full of glory every day, never hiding behind half moons or crescents. This sun has ever been the Lord of Days, but merciful. A gull calls, flies through its halo, and is not burned.
Waves break and froth against a single buoy.
Two fisherman carry coffee and bait in indiscernible white cups, set up chairs next to the dock, and cast hushed lines.
Just down the coast, land narrows to a single rocky point. There is no sand here, only rocks rounded by waves more ambitious than today’s. The lake is loud in this place, wave after wave turning turning themselves over in silver sheen and foam. The bay undulates like a dark serpent playing in new sunshine.
There will be no returning fishing boats today, but rolling waters still rock on the cradle of the earth. The sun still crested the edge of the earth right on time. We are given another day.
