I love mornings.

I begin getting excited about them the night before, while setting my coffee pot.

I love the way my feet are the first thing in the house to touch the ground. I love the cold chill that runs down my body as I leave the warmth of the comforter.

I love how I can smell the coffee wafting back to my bedroom and the deafening quiet and how my books of poetry wait dutifully by my chair.

I love to stretch and I love the way the Labrador pads along in front of me, whining with excitement, as if we haven’t seen each other in days.

And mostly, I love the sunrise.

And especially winter sunrises.

Oh, and winter sunrises, where a full moon and Venus make an appearance? Ecstasy.

Some days, like today, I pull on my heavy work coveralls, my insulated boots and gloves, and open my east doors anticipating that sunrise.

But on some days, like today, all I see is heavy gray clouds, snow-filled and the color of steel, an ocean of cold and storm.

I close the door, and smile anyway, and head out around the house to attend to morning chores. I stop dead in my tracks.

There it is.

The Sunrise.

In the West.

The mountains, snow covered, are glazed in the most ebullient pink.

The sky shimmers, hinting at daylight.

I begin trekking west, towards the end of the day.

The sky laughs, delighted at the little joke it has played on me. It reminds me of Lao Tzu’s words:

“…beginnings can be disguised as… endings.”.

And I think, mornings can be disguised as evenings.

The sky tells me that beauty is not always where you look, but where you allow your attention to rest.

It tells me that this day, when it ends, will be as beautiful as when it began.

I can anticipate it.

I should expect it.

I have the power to search for it and make it so.