The dawning of a new day is a beautiful thing. I watch the sunrise by the alpenglow on the forest to the west. The trees tinge pink and the sky opens, the pink moves from the trees to the clouds above, then to the periphery.
I scan my newspaper and it is fresh, unblemished. The blurbs on the front page beckon to stories that proclaim the morning. In pictures and words, the world is laid out like the spread of a quilt under which I have woken.
Some mornings just seem rosily tinged this way. It bestows a feeling like the wisp of air that often brushes against my face as I walk down Main Street in autumn.