It strikes me that each dawn is unqualified, unrepeatable. There is nothing which could prepare me for this morning, standing alone among the mornings of the world. It could be the first morning of my life or the last, and it would be the same: familiar and alien as the morning star.
Nothing could have prepared me for the silence of the trees today, the gigantic moth swooping from the shadows at the end of my walk, or the bottle-lace silhouette of the basketball hoop against the eastern sky; for the dark smudge of doubtful, semi-slumberous geese edging the pond, the watchful grace of the egret moving through muddy water—or for the birds arising, answering each to each.
It’s easy to see all these things as somehow having lived it all before; as though the stars and the trees and the pond have seen this morning already, every day for a thousand years, and I am the newcomer—wide-eyed on a weary earth. But we stand before each other all at once, the stars and the geese and I: simultaneous expressions of a single Word, confronting with equal wonder this expected and marvelous, extraneous, gratuitous, disconsolately beautiful birth.
Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.