The varied thrush blew their referee whistles into the stillness. In the absence of a proper sunrise, they took it upon themselves to announce the dawn. Day was infusing the fog so gently that the shift out of darkness was almost imperceptible. Blankets of mist gradually released a sleepy forest, and the trees woke and raised their limbs to meet the diffused light. Even then, a certain volcano remained snoozing for several more hours, cozy behind the clouds. It was a late night under the Milky Way for all of us—except the varied thrush, apparently—and the clear skies had been captivating. And sometime between then and now, after eyes finally, reluctantly closed, everything changed. On the fog rolled in this daydream of a morning, and with it, permission to become a special kind of peaceful. keenly present. absolutely unhurried.