where the writers are
The Early Morning

My early mornings aren't comical or romantic, just fragmented moments. There's no soft music playing as dawn rises, nor are their children playing out their antics, just a soft rumble, an avalanche, as events overtake the concept of sleep and forces me to get up.

5 AM, cats are stirring, talking, tapping on the door to leave. I get up and let the boys out. They race out with delight but I watch through the door's window. They see the snow and slow down. Side by side, they stride down the walk, a secret cat meeting to attend. I'll bet the meeting is called for snow and cold in a little while.

I return to bed. Work thoughts creep into the bed with me. The action woke my wife so I massage her back as work gremlins crowd me. At least think of something other than work, I urge myself. Work on your novel. I do that. Bad idea. 

Find something else. Meditate. The cats broke me out of a dream. I'd bought a new jacket. I was going to see my father. That required me to travel along some road under construction. I was in a fast sports car. In a sort of movie screen existence, I witnessed events from outside myself, as part of the crowd, and from inside the car, where I drove. 

Thinking about the dream put me into temporary slumber. Thoughts of the boys wanting back in from the snow woke me up. I thought I heard someone mewing. I checked the front door. The boys were ready to come in. 

Back to bed. A cat comes into the bedroom and pukes. Twice. 

Notice how cats like to puke twice? At least that's been our cat experience. The first effort brings out the mass. The second is a light gag to clear their palate. 

That prompted me to get up. 6:05. May as well get up anyway.