Morning Muse

We all have our mornings. I prefer the foggy ones, dreams that stretch filemented fingers around roosters and clocks to sudenly flick my eyes open. I want to wake into, not out of, a dream. Knowing what happens next tastes like death to me. I don't want to know behind which bush the bunny rabbit hides. I want it to pop out and surprise the hell out of me.

So I court the round edges of sleep deprivation. Jetlag is my best friend, waking up in Tahiti. Napping in a duck marsh is my favorite, warm and waterproof in thick neoprene waders, amid the perectly random and punctuated staccato popping of shot gun fire, light rain on my smiling, bearded face.

Cabin mornings, tangled sleeping bags and limbs, a blur of love, a pile of dogs and sleepy-headed children, wishing the dream and the moment could breath as one, always--it makes me miss Seattle, our wives sipping their morning coffee, smiling in the effulgent yellow kitchen. Is there anything as beautiful as a groggy mama in the morning?