These are the long days of Summer in the Tropics. At 6:30 in the morning the sun breaks over the glistening horizon beyond Mokapu Peninsula streaming brightness through the slits in the studio blinds. The silence is flat: total nothingness interrupted only by a crowing rooster or a motorcycle digging out on Kamehameha Highway down below.
Oh, to stop-frame the moment. Then fondle it in from every facet. The mountain air is still. No trade winds. No man made fumes. Pure God's oxygen. A trace of morning dew coats the Kukyu grass, the driveway nearly dry from its overnight rinse. As I type this, the chicken's chorus rises, from murmur to crescendo. They're not that loud; it's because the mute moment has sucked every decibel from the air. If silence is golden, this morning is platinum.
The guy down below must be frying bacon. Its aroma is the only clue of human activity in the houses nearby. The moment is so tranquil, the mood so lazy that even the birds are still, still. Not a branch moves in the jungle that nudges the bedrooms. Wiggling meters indicate that our stream is flowing. I dare not turn up a speaker and break the mood.
All I hear is the chicklet tinkle of the keyboard. No hurry to grab the morning paper to see what first screams out from the world at large. CNN, on the monitor, on TV, can wait. This is the lull before the storm of sports to clog the TV in months to come. The studio mikes are at rest, awaiting the joyous sounds due next.
Aha, finally the first cheep-cheep of this new day. The mynah birds come alive. Whatever drives me to keep on blogging is evaporating fast. I've made an entry to notate this moment of total peace. The Marines below are still. For now, everything is cool. Pau this keyboard. I'm heading outside to drink it all in. Then to the bakery for some fresh Kona coffee and a sinful loaf of Portuguese sweet bread.
I'll double check my rear license plate frame, bought long ago after a meeting in Culver City. If it still reads, "One day at a time," I'll know this is not a dream. Fade up the monitor. The Makapuu Sand Band sings "Winds Of Waimanalo." How lucky can one guy be?
Me ke aloha kakahiaka from Kaneohe.
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