I am not a morning person. My mom tells me that even as a baby, I slept through the dawn and blissfully beyond. It’s something I’ve never outgrown. Just ask my snooze alarm.
    I think it’s genetic, though I do come from a family of mostly morning people. The only other night owl perched in our family tree is my oldest brother (also a writer). I’m sure one of our Ukrainian ancestors also dreaded the dawn. Considering we come from peasant farmer stock, I feel for him – or her.
    I know the morning has its beauties. Sunrise, for one. I almost never see one of those. (I did set my alarm for sunrise during our shore vacation. Our bedroom had a beautiful beach view. I woke up, watched the sunrise, and immediately went back to sleep.)
    Another, more accessible beauty? Morning glories. Years ago my neighbor planted seeds by the telephone pole that stands between their driveway and our curb.  Every year the flowers return: gorgeous purple blossoms twining their way up the pole. In recent years, they’ve spread, reaching out to and up the Watch Children sign.
    Come summer, those flowers greet me each day when I take our dog out before breakfast. My eyes may be bleary, my brain may be fogged, but those glories of the morning break through.
    They are so aptly named. I timed them today: In full glory at 8, the blossoms were already closing by 10:30, packing up their palette for another day.
    They almost make dealing with morning less difficult.
    Almost.