An hour into the day — it is still bizarre to be awake. You know this feeling — first torn from sleep by the alarm, then roasting in the next few minutes of consciousness while sitting up in bed trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Then more.
Somehow we have come to accept this as normal.
Cold shower? Check. Coffee? Check.
Still painful, no meaningful gratitude. Somewhat more awareness, enough to drive in the morning dark. Past the dip in the road where that odd husky dog randomly attempts martyrdom, but not this morning. Over the dead armadillo. Why did the chicken cross the road? To prove to the armadillo that it could be done, of course. Do not tell this joke to children, for it treats death casually. A few days ago we saw that same armadillo at this same hard hour still alive, scooting hard to the intro riff from Smoke on the Water as we drove by. Briefly the eyes close, but somehow the road hugs the car tight.
The incline levels out, and the woods part into open fields. The moon is low in the west, and there is just enough attention to tap the brakes for a fox streaking through the headlights. The viewing lasts 3 seconds.
A good omen is worth the inconvenience.