Morning Light

I came into work later than usual this morning. That means that the sun was a little higher than normal. I suppose that means it is usually in my nose, because this it was certainly in my eyes during this commute.

I keep my cell phone in a clip-on holder on my visor. Not because I have to, mind you. Clifford is a big truck loaded with neat places a phone could go: in the Rubbermaid container between the seats; in the curious hole in the dash where some convenience I've been doing without for over two years would go; on the recessed dashboard dust pits just behind the defrost vents (although, to be fair, cell phones left there slide daringly back and forth threatening to fly out the window with every turn). I could do any of those things. But I keep it clipped to the visor. I like the "phhhhht" sound of the Velcro when I open the phone case and the feeling of security when I pat it closed after I put the phone back. But because I keep a phone clipped to the visor, I don't lower the visor. For possibly very similar reasons (who knows?) God doesn't lower the sun. I suppose we mutually agreed that it would be perfectly okay for me to squint halfway to work this morning. It was worth it.

When I turned off I-70 to take some back roads to work, the light was incredible. It was one of those mornings when it looked as if it might storm. The sky was a dark shade of grayish blue. An almost eerie background for everything the sun was shining on in the foreground. Like the seagulls that flashed and flickered as white punctuation points while they arced and wheeled in the sky. Or power lines that became silvery strands of garland along the twisting road. The trees were alternately whitewashed Wedgewood cameos or Victorian silhouettes, depending upon which turning the road took. As I neared work, the sky changed to a light blue striped by bright white clouds. The show was over, but thanks to AT&T wireless and my refusal to lower the visor, I saw the whole thing with an unobstructed view.