Good Morning, Bright Crowley Sun

Good morning, bright Crowley sun.

The bright red/yellow orb, a kaleidoscopic mix of mustard and Tabasco, melted the dark night away, spinning a rich hue of color across the South Georgia sky.  Emerging from the sky's glorious color wheel, flying straight towards Spitchaw Ridge, a magnificent bird of prey, the Golden Eagle, swoops towards the pond in front of the home of Crowley's richest citizen.  The man watches from his front porch, wondering how close the bird will get, and if his rifle is too far away.

Another man, a mile away, lies awake in his bed, no longer able to sleep, listening to a rooster crow, ready to immerse into the routine that was the only thing that helped him endure; a young woman is asleep in the barn, and her father wonders where his daughter is at, because it is time to start the chores; a waitress sits on the back stoop of the Honey Dew, waiting for the diner to open, wondering if this will be a day he comes in; a man fixes his wife coffee, unsure of what time she actually came in the night before;  a woman nearing 105 sees the sun come through the slats of her assisted living apartment, and realizes she is still around to experience another day; the high school football field lights up in orange reflection, the school's prospects dimmed by an injury to their star quarterback; the Sheriff rises, thinking about whether the fish are biting, and smiles at his sleeping wife, patting her gently on the behind;  Crowley Circle and all it's businesses and offices brighten, readying for the daily work week; a doctor practices early morning yoga in her office, preparing herself to take on the often ignorant onslaught; a trailer park stands empty, everyone inside their pseudo-mobile hovels, except a man retching  near his porch picnic table, and the sound of one tied-up dog barking; the sunlight melts away the ghosts and the dark things that lurk in the midnight black; a woman nervously prepares breakfast for her sleeping husband, knowing the consequences if she doesn't get things exactly right; a man prepares his kayak for another trip in the swamps that lay at the edge of Crowley, armed only with a camera and a scientific mind, equipped with a love of nature and appreciation for the beauty of the earth.

The waitress leaves the stoop, puts aside her worried contemplations, and opens her arms to the bright, rising sun.  She begins to twirl, the sound of music flooding her brain.  To dance, to dream, to hope, to pray.  What better way to start the day.

The diner back door opens, and the owner beckons the dancing waitress in.

Another bright Crowley day has begun.

Welcome.  Let us all come in.  At least for a spell.

They're all waiting for you.