It’s Hard to Retire from the Real World, but That’s What Sunrises Are for

This column by Kays Gary was first published by The Charlotte Observer in October, 1991.

Sunrise beyond the Little River Point bathed the East in a kind of glory men must know belongs to a power far greater than minds can ever hold.

It is a baptismal, a birthing commanding an awesome silence on land and sea until the majestic moment arrives with a Hallelujah chorus of birds.

It is a baptism like no other, a humbling of human values and appetites.  Be still and know…

There are times when our prayers are admission that we don’t know how…

Until we watch a sunrise.

I sometimes wish that in the world of work I had found times for more sunrises and sunsets.

This particular sunrise, surely, announced a day as perfect as Creation could ever plan.

On the Cherry Grove Pier, pony-tailed David Fuller was reeling in another giant King Mackerel, and, on the beach, singly or in pairs, people strolled, jogged or bathed in October’s lemon light beneath the highest, bluest of cloudless skies.

Beneath our stilted house, my personal Shangri-la, I found Mike, the mockingbird, singing his heart out from his perch on the picnic table.

He does this in mighty contempt of the loud, partying grackles flapping around the bird bath and oleander bushes.

Cardinals Maude, Claude, their children and grandchildren monopolized the feeder near the myrtle tree despite the quick, hit-and-run forays of chickadees and marsh wrens.

I watch. I listen. I applaud.