Sometimes, one must pity the late sleepers of the world. Poor souls, they miss the early morning almost every day of their lives. What ails them? Have they never seen the sunrise? Surely not, for, if they had, they would not likely be caught abed again past that hallowed hour.

It is then, in the subdued light of early morning, when things natural and even some manmade reach their peak of loveliness. Consider the garden. With one’s first wake-up cup in hand, he stands on the back porch surveying blossoms and greenery that just cannot project the same inspiring beauty in the noonday sun. In morning sunlight, even the gaudy red of Texas star hibiscus refuses to clash with the soft pink of antique roses or a purple Grandpa Ott’s morning glory.

Even during high summer, when most garden flora has passed its prime, the early eastern sun somehow makes it pretty. First light, it seems, is a forgiving backdrop.

In this same light, perhaps diffused and fogfiltered, the lakes and streams provide observers an exhibition not to be seen when the sun climbs its highest. The angler, for instance, pauses on the pond bank, reluctant for a brief moment to launch his johnboat or canoe, lest it disturb the mirrored surface and spoil the reflection of bank-side trees on dark water.

The fisherman soon learns there is ample reward for his intrusion upon such a picturesque scene. A well-placed cast of his topwater plug in a patch of lily pads may reward him with the sudden strike of a hefty largemouth bass. There are few things more exciting than a bass attacking a topwater lure and nowhere is the thrill as intense as on a slicksurfaced pond early on a still morning. Add to that the drumming of waking bullfrogs, the smell of a fresh bluegill bed, and dappled sunlight on the water’s surface.

Are there better ways to begin a day? Not for an early rising fisherman.

Broken morning light casts shadows in the woods in fall. The hunter moves stealthily along, the dew-damp leaf carpet quieting his footfall on the forest floor. As he walks, he intently scans the treetops in the acorn-bedecked white oak patches. The squirrels, he knows, will soon step lively there.

The hunter is rapt in his concentration. His purpose and motivation are clear. He seeks fat, tasty bushytails for his game bag. But there is more to the morning than high hopes for a successful squirrel hunt. There are things, the wise nimrod likewise realizes, to be savored that have little to do with the taking of game.

There is an orb weaver spider’s web cleverly suspended between two sparkleberry shrubs. It hangs like a priceless necklace, bejeweled with dewdrops in the early morning stillness. It shimmers and dances when some unwary insect flies into its beautiful but deadly strands. Breakfast for a spider and, for the hunter, a privileged glimpse into nature’s often-violent but no less beautiful progression.

The morning air is pierced by the squeals of wood ducks pitching in at the creek in the distance. They, too, are hungry. The squirrels will soon have company at their acorn feast.

A barred owl barks out its unmistakable “whocooks for-you” bedtime call, receiving no answer in return. The bird’s brethren have already roosted for the day. No time now to acknowledge this lone owl’s late-tobed announcement, or to bemoan the fact that that it will sleep alone this day.

These sights and sounds, and a few deep breaths of clean morning air, all cause the attuned hunter to forget for just a moment that he is a predator seeking quarry. There is, he thinks, much more to it than that. And how very right he is.

It is simple. Simple and pure and wonderful. It is, day in and day out, ample reason for the gardener to arise and take his coffee on the porch. It is both peaceful and exhilarating for the fisherman who rises early to be on the lake by sunrise. It is reflection and wonder for the hunter who finds himself mesmerized by myriad dawning forest activities.

Yes, very simple. Simply morning.

It is a good time of day.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream. net)