6 a.m. in the park

I'd been talking big, as I often do. The other morning I woke up at 4 and couldn't get back to sleep; I sat by the window and watched the sky slowly brighten, from gray-blue to pinkish blue to baby blue, and listened to the birds chatter about where they were going to go to find their worms.

When Doug got up, I said, "On Saturday, I'm going to ride my bike over to the park first thing to see the sun come up. I bet there are thousands of animals out and about then, before any people get there."

And then of course on Saturday I slept until my usual 5:30, and made coffee, and fetched the papers, and settled in on the porch in my jammies for a nice leisurely morning... and Doug said, "If you put your clothes on, we can take our bikes over to the park."

(Have I mentioned already that he's the perfect husband?) I was out of that chair in a flash and in three minutes we were pedaling up the alley. Across the street, down the curvy bike path to the lake, and --what's this? More bikers? And walkers. And dogs. And my biggest pet peeve of all time, someone walking a dog on the bike path.

It was a beautiful ride anyway, with a great blue heron perched down at the end of the point, and rabbits freezing in the grass as we passed, and a gentle breeze, and everything so lush from the recent rain. It reminded me of that great line from James Thurber: "I believe in the sudden deep greenness of summer." That was this morning.

We saw no animals--no owls, no foxes, no coyotes, not even the red-tailed hawk we'd been seeing for a while. Lots of people, though; more people than we normally pass an hour later.

As we coasted back down through the woods toward home, I said, "Next weekend--5 a.m."

I know, I know. Big talk.