In the early waking hours of the day, when the stars have
all but faded from the eastern sky, I look for the first flare
of light from the sun.
The usual cloak of clouds has fled, distracted by a weather
system approaching from the Pacific, or maybe from Canada.
Now the Cascade Mountains are soon to be revealed.
The mountains carve their signature silhouette against the
day's womb. Dawn appears jagged, the horizon broken.
Soon there will be an orange sky, accompanied by hues
of purple and pink.
With its hazy guardian gone, the Cascades must face the
audacity of the sun alone. Such uncontested access to the
mountains is rare, but not without precedent. The sun will not
squander this opportunity.
As it perfects its calculated assault, the sun rides to the top
of the spine of the elongated range, laughing as usual.
It rises higher and higher until at last,
day breaches the fortress of wood and stone,
and light flows sweetly, beatifically,
into the fawn of morning.
The Cascades, in resplendent surrender,