How about the mornings that compel you to sit up and write? The hush at 6:30—soft air floating the leaves of the rangy scrub maple that straddles the stone wall at the property line—the congregation of birds muttering among themselves deep in the back woods.
An open window invites sound and the subdued swish of commuters navigating the two-lane highway a quarter-of-a-mile away travels. Orange light from an early sun glows on the trunks of thick pines, the top cigar leaves of the giant rhododendrons—below, the garden rests in green shade.
With crusted eyes, you vault from the bed to write about it, grabbing a pen, jotting some notes, stumbling to the computer—while the noise of a truck rumbling up the street rolls in like a wave, a hiss that grows to a crescendo, a thunder, before pummeling by, and you are grateful when the engine noise is swallowed by silence again, and for the puff-ball hydrangea blossoms that bow and rest in the sleep that still embraces the rear of the house.