The Hour Before the Birds Win

I think the hour before sunrise might be my favorite hour.

Not sunrise itself.

Sunrise is lovely, obviously, but by then everything has started happening.

I mean the hour before it.

When the cottage is still blue and the garden belongs to the insects and I can put the kettle on without feeling as though I’ve officially begun the day.

There is a difference.

I rarely sleep through it.

I did once recently, after accidentally falling asleep on the porch, but that is a different story and I maintain there were extenuating botanical circumstances.

Usually, though, I am here.

The kettle goes on.

I open the window.

And then I wait.

There is a cricket somewhere beneath the porch who seems to have been given responsibility for the night shift. I don’t know where exactly he lives. I’ve looked.

He stops when I look.

We have an understanding now.

There are other sounds I don’t recognize. Little rustlings in the grass. Wings occasionally brushing leaves. Something that makes a tiny pip-pip-pip near the rosemary and has refused all attempts at identification.

I’ve decided it can keep its secrets.

For a while, that’s all there is.

The insects.

The kettle beginning to warm.

The smell of the garden coming through the window.

And that particular blue darkness that isn’t really night anymore but hasn’t become morning either.

Then the first bird wakes up.

Always just one.

One tiny, tentative chirp from the hedge.

A pause.

Another.

I like to imagine this bird has been appointed to check whether the rest of them should bother getting up.

Apparently the answer is always yes.

Soon another bird answers.

Then another.

The kettle begins its little pre-whistle muttering.

The sky gets paler.

The insects start going quiet.

And somewhere in there, without anyone announcing it, everything shifts.

That’s the part I’ve been thinking about lately.

Because my thoughts seem to do it too.

Before sunrise, they are just thoughts.

Soft little things.

Maybe I’ll walk down to the creek.

I wonder if the blackberries are ripe yet.

I should look for that book about moths.

Could you put lavender in blackberry jam?

No idea.

Just thoughts.

They can wander around without having anywhere to be.

But once the kettle whistles and the victorious early birds begin shouting from every available branch, my thoughts start changing.

An idea becomes something I could do.

Then something I might do.

Then I start wondering where I left the basket.

And there it is.

A plan.

Possibly even trousers.

Terrible how quickly these things escalate.

I don’t dislike that part.

Plans can be lovely.

Doing things can be lovely.

There are herbs to gather and paths to wander and things I want to make.

There are also dishes, but I see no reason to bring them into this.

I just love the moment before all of it.

That little pause between rest and rebirth.

When yesterday is finished but today hasn’t quite begun.

When nothing has been decided yet.

Not even me.

The kettle is nearly ready now.

The cricket beneath the porch has gone quiet.

The bird in the hedge has summoned reinforcements.

Smokey is still asleep, because Smokey considers sunrise an administrative matter that does not require his involvement.

The first bit of light has reached the kitchen table.

In a minute, I’ll make the tea.

After that, perhaps I’ll find the basket.

Perhaps I’ll go see about those blackberries.

Perhaps I’ll do something entirely different.

But not yet.

For one more minute, the world is still blue.

And I don’t have to know what comes next.