I have a default favorite moment of every day, just in case it all falls apart amid the phone calls and emails and complications.
It lasts the brief ten seconds it takes to cross a bridge on my way to work. The upward arch gives a vantage point few other places in this town offer. To the left, houses ride the ridges that ripple north. To the right, splashes of oak dot swathes of brown.
Straight ahead, the mountains, or something most like mountains in this area, vie for first in line.
Every morning the scene is painted differently. Sometimes the sky sparkles blue like a Disney movie. Others, it’s laced with thin clouds.
This morning, the fog hems in the hills like a down comforter. One patch of sunlight shows through in measured beams. It’s as if God scooped out a chunk of the clouds and set a colander in the open space.
I used to overlook this area’s true beauty. I ignored it with the snobbery of someone who grew up where mountains fade into seas of snowy tips.
But this bridge opened up a world I under appreciated. It is a fresh breath of still in chaos, where I sip coffee as the radio hums. I coast.
Then the bridge descends into a mix of traffic lights and commuters. And I go back to glancing at the clock and hoping for green lights.