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Awaking to our neighborhood bird chorus these past couple weeks has been a refreshing change after winter’s gloom. It’s morning! Time to get up! the winged serenaders call out!  A concert like no other is held right in my own backyard, and on too grand a morning to linger in bed. It’s springtime!

My eyes squint open, bringing a smile. Morning light streams into the bedroom around the window shades, greeting the Preacher and me to another new day.

Winter seems to have made its annual disappearance earlier this year, and our hills are in bloom with gorgeous color. Two months ago our home lay hidden, fogbound. Now, in this season of green, no more frost to be scraped off car windows before driving to work.

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Calves graze on the sleepy landscape as I drive by—bucolic shapes barely visible in pre-dawn moments before the sun appears. After the first seven o’clock of the day. Just last week the sun rose a few minutes after six. But not any more.

Didn’t I already do this a while back? I sigh, heading east and trying to shield my eyes while navigating mountain curves in the morning glare.

With Daylight Saving Time this past weekend, one lovely hour of my mornings was stolen—the first hour of early light.

Having no shame someone eons ago decided to rearrange time, taking an hour away every spring, and returning it every fall. With the promise we’ll enjoy the extra daylight this evening, and for months of evenings to come, and we’ll save on electric bills.

But my husband has a green thumb, and after coming home from work, he heads outside to play with his plants, until the light fades and he can’t see anymore. And as the season progresses into the next, we eat dinner late. And do dishes later. And our schedules get mixed up in these Daylight Saving days. I don’t suppose summer vacation could start this week? Then it wouldn’t matter what time we eat dinner. And I could sleep in and wake with the sun, because these days the sun’s sleeping in, too.

I have some great memories of playing hide-and-seek after dinner on summer nights. But I also remember going to bed while the sun was still up, listening to other kids play while I laid there bored and wide awake, evening sun streaming around a set of window shades from a previous century. Must have been on the days when I got in trouble.

As much as I miss waking with the birds and the sun, Act 2 of Springtime Mornings in the Country has just dawned. And as much as I wish humans would leave time alone, I am once again treated to watching God’s masterpieces, awed by a pale pink cotton candy sky or the fiery glow lining whipped cream pillars.

So, instead of complaining, since it won’t change a thing, I’ve decided to sit back and enjoy the show.

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