Morning Lark

Sonja Hansen

I woke up before the sun. I always did. After a certain age, you just don’t need as much sleep anymore. Before dawn, my body gave a jolting wake-up call and summoned me to begin the day, inviting me to spend some time with myself.

Lucky for me, the ranch had plenty to offer to fill my need for movement. I put on a wool sweater, rolled the cuffs of my jeans, and tied a bandana around my neck to keep the morning breeze from blowing down my shirt. By afternoon, it would make a cooling handkerchief. And by evening, it would likely be smattered in grease, shit and blood—indications of a day well spent.

I stepped outside to greet the remaining night air, under my breath. I took the dark into my lungs. This time of day made me feel earthly, beautiful and magical—a silvery Hippolyta, a war-worn queen who hasn’t yielded yet, determined to greet each and every dawn until her number is called.

My boots crunched against leaves and my feet and ankle bones popped as I walked the path to our outdoor kitchen. I felt more at ease out there. I was happier when outdoors. I thought back to the family photos that line our hallway. I looked most beautiful and alive in the ones that featured us basking in the sunlight. I glowed. I smiled, felt like this is where I’m supposed to be, that I’ve landed. I felt joyful and full of bliss.

In the dusky air of those early hours, I prepared a fire, a good and roaring one, appropriate to combat the dew that had settled over that November night. “It’s home—wet, wild, cold, hot,” I thought. I threw dried petals and herbs into a teapot, moving efficiently through the routine required to rev up my family and our home.

While hanging the kettle above the flames, I could practically hear the snores of exhausted teenage bodies packed in the barn we had converted into their own private bungalow last summer. The night before, I had heard their zany tirades. They had giggled and danced the night away in the arbor as always. As they should at this age. I was proud the kids could play, express and enjoy themselves freely on the ranch. As grateful as I was for my own private quarters, I missed the energy and comfort of a bunkhouse.

Leaving the snores behind, I took wide steps through the grass to visit the henhouse, in which lived “the girls”—affectionately nicknamed by yours truly. My chickens were “my girls,” but so were my sisters, daughters and granddaughters. As a result, on more than one occasion my reminder to “Hurry up and go feed the girls,” had been amusingly misinterpreted by some well-intentioned soul. My family had teased me that they shouldn’t be lumped into the same category as our humble birds. I had countered that they should be so lucky.

The chickens clucked cheerfully in recognition of their benefactor. I lightly clucked back, pouting my lower lip and constricting my throat to do my best impression. I felt comfortable communicating with the chickens only under these circumstances—when the chilly night was wearing off, and everyone else on the ranch was still in a deep sleep. I fed the girls and gently handled a couple of “love bugs,” who clung close by my legs in hopes of a caress.

Back outside, I stoked the hearth. I always had an image in my mind that one day my fire would be so bolstered that it would shine into the house’s windows. I pictured my family mistaking the blaze for the sun reaching its apex and hustling out, believing that they had slept until noon, missing the better part of the daylight.

The sun glinted and grew over the marvelous hills, bringing lavender and hints of greens. The world grew in saturation as I sipped my tea.

I watched as my daughter Hattie wandered out onto the porch. Bouquets of flowers dripped around her from the verandas shaded by linen pulled taut. The scene rendered my child the image of a sleepy, ethereal queen. One hand was placed on her low back, the other massaged her shoulder blade. Another early morning bathroom break probably. Or maybe the morning sickness was back. I remembered my wife’s own pregnancy. Maybe Hat took after her.

I made a mental note to forage for ginger. It was late fall at this point, but perhaps the soil harbored a secret enclave that I could sniff out. My wife had savored chamomile tea to stave off incessant waves of nausea. I planned on scouring the house for sturdier pillows for my girl. Anything to get her rest she needed.

My heart skipped a beat as she began walking barefoot toward me. I made space on a wooden bench and shook out the very same blanket we had used to warm her as a girl. I was ready to share the morning I had helped prepare for her.