It could be any place––the sun rises no differently here than in Accra, Grand Rapids, Washington. But here: every tree, a hint of the Amazon. Every inconsistency in the horizon, the Andes.
Below, the early light barely sheds on––is it water or clouds?––and it seems the world is being born, recreated, below me, beginning only with light. Perhaps this is the case every morning: the entire world begun again from light, brand new.
The sun begins to rise and fill the world with gold, as I am filled with the giddiness of a child on Christmas morning with presents to open. Today is Christmas morning; the world is to open.