Mornings are like a blessing handed to us directly from God. I have been awake for almost every one since the fall of 1972. You walk out into the darkness with your light and sit by the fire as the coffeewater boils. As you finish your cuppa, you mount up – and lead by your light, you leave the safety of the campfire. Within a few feet, Orion makes itself visible, it’s belt straddling the northeastern sky. You can feel and see your breath – thankful for that coat ya got. You blow out your light, strap it to your saddle, as you look up, it begins. The ground around your horses feet almost starts to feel liquid as the darkness is slowly touched and starts to ever so slowly melt away. As the eastern sky starts to glow – the static, the certainty of the night stillness gives way to a quivering quake of anticipation. The insects first, then the birds hear it coming. They know the blessing too, and count upon it. The tendrils of the sun burst over the horizon like a compass needle. You wince at first, but then the warmth strikes you in the soul, and it all makes sense.