// 6:39am

It’s 6:39am, I’m sitting on the roof of the clinic with Mo and Paul. It’s slightly chilly, the sun isn’t high in the sky, and the birds are singing their morning song. In the distance metallic white noise resounds as if ricocheting off the mountains in the distance, cascading down them and echoing back to my own ears. I can hear a rake dragging through blades of grass and other unidentifiable animal chirps. Faintly I hear the sounds of breakfast being made in the kitchen below interrupted only by the occasional, but resounding rooster crow. The lanky trees stretch skyward like fingers and the sun illuminates them from behind causing the deep green leaves to turn almost golden. Nick is here now. It’s truly beautiful to be surrounded by such wonderful people. Like the sun illuminates the dark green leaves, this team illuminates the darkest parts of me, turning me golden. The nurses are awake, making their way to the dining hall. A rooster in close proximity is crowing now, I can see him waddling around. I’m wearing a light jacket, something very rare to wear this time of year at this place here, but with a breeze coming in from some direction or another, and a canopy of leaves filtering the sun into narrow slits, a jacket just feels right.

It is so simple to be an observer. To sit and watch and soak in the glory that is 6:39am. The sights and sounds, my senses awakening with prolonged exposure—the quiet that comes from only four. I’m by no means a morning person, never have been, and never will be, but I am an observer of the elements that compose life, and sometimes the most beautiful ones are those that vanish just as soon as the sun pops up from behind those tall trees.

[alc]