With George at Sunrise

Commuting to the District for work these three years starting most days from a bus stop within sight of the Potomac, I’ve seen many lovely sunrises over the river, and almost every one makes me think of the Father of our Nation.  This morning, through a gap between two buildings, I saw for the hundredth time a beautiful sunrise over the Potomac.  Every time it’s different.  Every time it’s beautiful.  Every time I think, Washington built his house so he could face that view every day.  This morning, the horizon’s edge is  pinkish, the colors reflected in the smooth flowing river.  The sun also daubs pink on the high canopy of clouds the color stretching almost to the far western edge.  Today the approaching sun is a painter, brushing the palette’s colors far from where he slowly emerges into the day.  As I watch, the painting grows: orange, amber, gold where sky meets the trees on the far side, then the canvas stretching up, first pinks, then deep mauves, and finally, steely ocean blues directly above.

Several blocks down the street, from the bus I see the sun has painted the steeple’s top, a bright wash of white that stands out in the dim, early dawn churchyard.  This was George’s church, about nine miles from his beloved home overlooking the river.  You can still sit in the Washington’s family pew.

Watching the sun rise, though I admire him for what he accomplished, I admire him more for what he was willing to give up to accomplish it.

About literarylee

I sling words for a living. Always have, always will. Some have been interesting and fun; most not. These days, I write the fun words early in the morning before the adults are up and make me eat my Cream of Wheat.
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