Dawn appeared as muted melancholy, morning energy unfelt for many weeks—grey skies and slow fall rain that made dimple-marks on shallow puddles spread before his view—rain, even as little as it was, that would sustain much in the stressed earth around.
There was no wind, and the air held damp, still and cool. In seasons of aridity and too much sun, one remembers again the necessity and gift of such colds and melancholies; respite and restoration and recovery from unchanging days lived in persistent flame.
The earth soaked the rain, drawing into exhausted depths as roots drank in sustainment and recovery of curled verdure.
Through sky-melancholy, birds sang still from recess and refuge beneath umbrella boughs and summer branches.
Spirit spoke still in sky, but in different sign: notes and song, absent vision of the sun.
He immersed himself in spirit of the morning—in the cold and dampness, stillness save for falling tears that dimpled puddles’ face—and amidst his melancholy, he believed it a beautiful day.
A new beginning—perhaps—as any dawn can be; should one decide and will it so.
Life needs grey as much as light and sun if Spirit—as flower, vine, and virtue—is to hold within a balance: enduring, proceeding, growing ever upward in purpose of life-aim.
Some strains, only melancholy heals.
Immersed in such, he sensed. Air was cool, but his heart was warm; and he thanked God for the rain.