At first it sounds like an orchestra warming up at the theater, everyone in their own element, worrying about their own instruments and itinerary, no real sense of uniformity — they think no one is listening and so make the most natural sounds of all. Where darkness reigned just moments ago, small cracks of light burst forth with such dramatic weight that one would think the earth is being forged before their eyes. Through the fronds of the palm tree and the gaps of the tightly woven smoke shrub, through the ancient tree tops and between the cold dewy metal of the chain link fence, the glow rises and permeates the scene with an adagio pace. There is a moment of suspense, a collective holding of breath it seems, as if the skies were about to show its partypoker cards or announce the winner of a presidential election, rather than the dawn. Shades of orange and magenta seep into the firmament, chasing the stars and moon away.

The ocean breeze, that will in a few short hours be thick and syrupy, is now smooth and refreshing, as it too wakes for the day, and relieves the night wind from its dark and eerie shift. Sundry notes resonate from the vast stage as the curtain is sluggishly drawn up, though, the players of those notes lay hidden in the landscape at the site of their slumber. The warm-up continues.

 

A silver throated tanager rises on one of the thick ancient branches of the sterculiaceae tree — a tree native to Panama. She surveys quickly, flutters her sleepy wings then dives down into the morning air toward the damp grass, spending only seconds with her feet in the cold dew before returning to that thick ancient branch with breakfast for her family. Her homecoming elicits a muffled choir of chirps from her young, who are still hidden within the tree’s lush crown.

Small apple-sized fruits hang from the thinner branches of the grand old tree. They are shaped like hearts and are swayed loose by the hugging breeze. The fruits crash upon the dense earth and split open in two halves as chestnuts spill out from within. The rhythmic sound of the impact provides an almost percussive pulse to the growing ensemble. With each new sound, another player is awakened and moves to join the procession.

Other birds, the red-legged honeycreeper, the Louisiana waterthrush, the small warbier and the collared sparrow begin their morning practice, flying too and fro through the radiance of the rising sun, now visible over the tree-lined horizon and on fire with the warm glow of the heavens. The sound of beating wings, small they may be, carry forth on the gentle transparent breeze and seem amplified by the stillness that can still be marked. Some may argue that the line between silence and sound is plain, but it is not, there exists one in the other and the transition is more akin to gradient, this is proven by the phenomenon of daybreak.

 

Just then, the sun crests the hulking trees and the scene is washed in a blinding orange hue. Those who were still asleep now animate slowly under the warmth of the climbing sun and shake off the heavy slumber. The pair of roosters that roam the empty lot on the left bellow out their famous din. The winged delegation, now flying about with a sense of duty, react to the roosters’ holler — some picking up speed and making haste for the ancient tree while others apply the brakes and seek the comfort of some thin branch or naked shrub.

The young sunflowers crane their necks to look at the sun and thus begin their slow untwisting from east to west. Their heads expand in the light with contentment and joy. The older sunflowers, those which are fully grown, remain still, observing the young and are surely nostalgic of their sprightly past. A small basil plant, who had wilted during the dark coolness of night, now perks up and flourishes under the beams of daylight. These things breathe and move with the sun.

 

As to all the creatures whose eyelids are thick enough to snub the light of the morning sun the caw of the twin roosters provides a more effective alarm. Included in this class are the two black dobermans across the graveled path which are quick to stand on guard with an aire of one who is embarrassed of his sleep. The rooster that, one might say, loves the sound of his own voice, continues to shriek and the dobermans, which are still taunted by lingering drowsiness, bark loudly in return. A street dog with no clear breed and a long matted coat saunters past the scene, indifferent to the dobermans’ bay, no doubt on his way to find some stale or mouldy breakfast. There is a sad glint in his eye, a lingering fear stiffened probably by some haunting memory of abuse. He walks sideways around others, refusing to take his dejected stare of potential danger off them.

With each passing second the sun grows brighter and warmer and more intense as the fauna’s chorus swells into a symphony with no apparent end to the crescendo. Where there was before only chirps now all forms of warble, trill, chirr, tweet and chitters remind the listener that silence will return not until the sun arcs the expansive sky and falls back down behind the curtain. Only a trained ear could still discern this sound from that and pick out specifics in the now homogenized song.

The sounds run so deep and so far that one is convinced the scene cannot be staged by the hand of man. The performance is so elaborate and so detailed that, when one really observes it, it becomes hard to believe that it transpires daily. The sun rises and the sun sets and if one were to take but a few minutes to watch it, its movement is visible. And the sunflowers that sprout, follow the sun, grow old and indifferent and wilt away and the ancient sterculiaceae with her heart shaped fruit, that blooms and sheds almost monthly remind he who reflects upon them of the natural impermanence of life. In fact, impermanence is the only constant.

 

 

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