Morning Glory



There is a very remote possibility that Cat Stevens and I have more in common than I thought.

I've always loved the melody and lyrics to "Morning Has Broken" -- the old Scottish Gaelic hymn he brought back to life in 1972. It comes to mind sometimes when I crack open an eye at 7 a.m. to watch the sun creep across the bedroom curtains. When I hear that song, I like to imagine the artist is a "morning" person.

"Morning has broken, like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for the springing, fresh from the world."

Daybreak is my favourite time of day. The world is quiet. The air is fresh and dewy. On fine days, the birds almost always burst out in song -- except for one.

There's a red-headed woodpecker who sits on our TV antenna at dawn each day, mistaking it, I am sure, for a juicy, bug-filled oak tree. His "rat-a-tat-tat" is distinctive by the pinging sound he makes against the metal pole.

His tenaciousness is admirable. Little Woody can keep up the soft drilling on and off for almost half an hour before admitting he's hammering on the wrong "tree". I lie there in bed, listening and wondering why he comes every morning to perform the same fruitless task.

And then I get it. Like me, and quite possibly Cat, he loves the morning. He loves the new melody he is creating on the metal pole. Forget the bugs. This is his way of celebrating the break of day.

Carpe diem, my little friend.


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