Early Morning Distraction

I like the flatter light that catches just one side of things.

I like to watch
the sun rise
on cold mornings,
it rises more slowly
than on warmer days.

It rises those days
like a sleepy child
rubbing sleep 
from its eyes,
peeking up and over
the horizon
like a timid spider
peering out from some 
hidden crevice,
leery of being 
exposed.

I like the flatter light
those mornings, 
the way it catches
just one side of things, 
like powerlines and chimneys,
all aligned
by the light,
lending high contrast
to the overview
of my neighborhood,
like an old film
photograph.

I like the way
the earliest light
can’t yet reach
the crystalline frost
on one side 
of my neighbor’s roof
but how it coaxes twisting threads
of steam up and off
the other side.

I like the way
the early light
lights up the thin leaves
of the privet 
and turns the live oak trees
into ominous, 
sprawling silhouettes.

I like the way
the low light
slices horizontally
through the branches of trees
and between houses,
creating brightly lit slits
and dark recesses
across the street.

Another 20 minutes
and the higher sun
will hit the other sides
of the frosted roofs,
melting away what looks like
powdered sugar 
sprinkled lightly everywhere,
turning it into 
a maze of
tiny tributaries
working their way down
the roofs,
down the gutters, 
and into yards 
and onto sidewalks.

Shortly the sun
will be even higher,
will hit my window
full on, blinding me,
obliterating my view,
and sending me off
to find another
quiet morning distraction.