SUNRISE COMMUTE

I leave early for work every morning.

I get to work about forty-five minutes ahead of opening, which means that I avoid all the traffic that backs up if I leave when I used to before the builders merged the high school and middle school with one access road (a dumb move by dumb contractors and equally dumb town overseers).  Thanks to the new traffic pattern and my extreme intolerance of stupidity, I haul my fat ass out of my house every morning at 6:30 and play Race the Buses, attempting to circumvent being stuck behind any of the multiple buses picking up students every ten feet.  This often means changing my travel plans at the last second when a random bus beats me through an intersection and gets in front of me.

For some strange reason, this morning's commute is surprisingly quiet.  In fact, it's almost like having the roads all to myself.  I glance at the car's clock to make sure I didn't accidentally leave too early, but, no, apparently I am just lucky today.  I get to my first traveling choice: route 28 straight ahead, which is the main thoroughfare, or left on Salem Street past the private school.

I turn left.

At the end of the road is a light and a busier, more treacherous road: route 125.  Unlike route 28 where the speed limit is 45 mph, route 125 traffic often pushes 60 mph and beyond until it passes the state police barracks.  I could tool along at a Formula One pace with other morning commuters, or I could cross the road, continue on Salem Street, and take a leisurely ride through the state forest past the ponds and bogs.

I go straight across.

It's all good, I tell myself.  I'm still way early, will have plenty of time for my morning cup of tea, and will miss the round-about backtracking to avoid the dangerous intersection where there is no light near to my work.  The streets, still deserted, are surprisingly light this morning, almost as if my headlights are unnecessary; almost as if spring really will come early to New England.

I start heading up the small hill that connects Salem Street with the turn I make to take me into the next town.  Suddenly, through the tall, bare trees, I see the most incredible scarlet glow.  The sun is rising with perfect beauty, a sight I get to enjoy maybe a dozen times a school year when conditions are absolutely aligned.  This means that to create this stunning skyline, the clouds have to be just right, the sky temperature just so, the encroaching daybreak timed just precisely.

I want to take a picture with my cell phone, but I'm driving.

This is when I realize this morning's quiet commute is in my favor.  Not a car behind me; not a car in front of me.  I stop my car in the middle of the street, fight with the cell phone's flash (I cannot see the setting without my glasses, which are in my school bag), then snap a picture.  As I continue driving, the moment slips away. 

At the intersection ahead of me, two cars join my commute, but I keep my eye on the sky.  The hill next to the library doesn't provide the view I am expecting/hoping for, so I continue into the lower parking lot by the playing field and snap another picture.  When I park my car in the top lot on the hill, I grab one more shot of the morning colors that are fading rapidly.

By the time I reach my classroom overlooking what should be the sunrise, the clouds have filled in and the colors are gone.  Mid-morning brings grayness; mid-afternoon brings rain.  There may be a spectacular sunrise, but there will be no spectacular sunset today.  Wind gusts and driving rain, but no sunbeams creasing the view from my patio.  The moment is long-gone, but I manage to preserve it in part, anyway, thanks to a nearly car-less (and, thankfully, bus-less) commute that, had I made any other choices in my drive, would never have allowed me to see the brief colors of the morning.