morning breaks, out of the grey

Mt. LeConte Sunrise

I move through a mountain top world in the dark,

the flashlight focuses me on a few feet in front,

those rocks and roots shape where my feet must go,

while the world away from my bubble of light,

unknown, unknowable, for a time,

I know where I am

but not where everything else is:

the gestalt lost in an illusion of control,

we wait for sunrise on the rock prow of the mountain,

the stars so visible two and a half hours ago

hidden by a misty blackness,

as clouds of mist race over and beyond us

nearby fir trees wait with us for revelation,

dawn slowly creeps at us

behind tumbling billowing clouds,

slowly revealing herself in countless shades of racing grey,



they part a bit and a crescent moon reveals itself,

only to quickly hide again in cloud,

as the light brightens, the pace quickens,

and views insert themselves into the spaces:

a bit of valley, a distant mountain,

clouds swirling over a ridge of trees,

the world teases us with what’s out there

and thus the views that could be before us

if the dawning sun will allow it,

and, finally, it does,

it’s as if a show is opening,

and the curtains fitfully withdraw,

my camera aches to hold each changing moment

as each view that was hidden is revealed,

hidden, and revealed again,

till the sun herself, heralded by intense flamed clouds,

slips above the horizon in a slow magnificence,

focusing our eyes and the world on the promise

inherent in a newly-revealed day,







morning breaks, and how can anyone not feel humbled

with how much this helps us know the glory 

inherent in the moment of recreating a new day.

by Henry H. Walker

July 31, ’16