How many would have thought, that noisy alarm clocks and screaming family members weren't what got you up in the morning. Not truly, not completely.
As the two girls stepped outside gentle gusts of wind blew the cheerful, noisy, and sometimes hostile sounds of an awakening town toward them. But, more than any of its other attributes, most of all, the barely bright city was busy.
The sun had yet to shine its full beauty upon the insignificant busybodies down on the streets. It was truly as if all of the people woke up earlier than the town itself. Everyone was as energized as if they had been awake for hours, and yet even the wind was blowing only slightly, as if stretching to wake up. If you listened closely enough, and concentrated immensity on drowning out all other sounds you could almost hear the world yawning her awakening.
For the longest time the city would slowly rise and fall as if the steady breathing calmed and quickened, and you would even start to wonder if it would wake up at all. You would anticipate it every morning, although you knew you had gone through the same thing the day before. But there was just something so ritual about waiting for the awakening, that it just signaled the beginning of another day. And finally, to ensure everyone that the day could truly begin, the sun would rise, unmasking its true and full glory. The birds would sing, hopping along the streets, showing that even the smallest creatures cared about the ancient ritual. The sky would always seem bluer, the fluffy clouds would seem whiter, and the sugary crescents would always seem sweeter.
It was this morning ritual that would truly signal the start of the day, the awakening of every being within itself, the pure joy and excitement of being alive again, for yet another morning.
Some anticipated this moment all day and night after it came, and after it had passed and gone, they would readily await for the next day that it would come. The sheer beauty of those moments would be so enchanting, so mesmerizing that poems would be written every day, songs would be sung in every different tune, on every single string, with every pressed key. Painters would be so charmed they would spends hours, days even over a pallet, working long and hard, tiring, weakening, to capture the full brilliance, but never losing faith, and never doing the sight quite justice.
The songs would play in your mind, the songs of mother nature. You'd dance in your soul, with morning as your partner. You could bathe yourself in the purest fountains, cleanse yourself with the most holy of water, and yet you would still find that it would not clean you as the sun's warm rays could. The sounds of awakening around you, the sighs of all the earth, you could feel it through the air, the ground, and every smell you inhaled.
The freshness of newfound dew of long-lived leaves. The sight of gentle sunshine upon each fragile rose petal. The crisp air that would be the freshest you could breathe all day. The life that began, and lived, and climbed, and fell, the life of all things living, of all things breathing. It all began anew right here, right now, it could start again, and again, at the break of dawn.