Every day at fish camp starts with a look at the sunrise. This is our ritual. Cup of coffee in hand, Marion and I walk out under the canopy of the live oaks. The Spanish moss hangs from every branch like laundry on the line. The sky in the east is beginning to show signs of the coming daylight.

We stand quietly by the canal where the boats dock. Some of the RVs are close enough that if we were to speak too loudly, we might get an invitation to take our walk elsewhere. We talk in hushed tones.

One boat putters out the canal toward open water. The soft ripple of his slow wake and the low hum of the motor are the only sounds in the day so far.

Even the birds are quiet. I wish I knew them by name. Some with long stork-like legs. Some white with long necks. Most of them have colorful eyes or brightly colored beaks. Lots of orange and blue. They walk along the bank, or in the shallow water, or dart from lily pad to lily pad. All of them in search of breakfast.

The local cattle, as well, have come down to the water this morning. Lumbering beasts. Noses to the ground. Heads bobbing slightly. It’s so quiet out here that I can hear the grass tearing with each tug as they eat away.

On the eastern horizon there is a cloud bank hiding the sun’s progress. But we know it’s coming. The outer edges of the cloud begin to glow a brilliant yellow. Every nook and crevice is outlined with a pencil made of gold.

There is always a bit of an empty feeling when the last day of fishing comes. Part of me wishes we could fish some more. Another part of me, the one cooked by the sun, has maybe had enough fishing for a while.

Life, for me, is more natural on land than water, anyway. For one thing, I like the feel of solid ground under my feet. On a pontoon boat, it can be hard to keep your balance. I’m not saying it’s like being out on the ocean in a John boat. But the footing is certainly more unstable than I’m used to.

The water is always in motion. My feet are always shifting. The movement of wind, water, and deck all require that constant adjustments be made in my center of gravity. Lean to the left. Sway to the right. Bend at the knee in rhythm to the waves.

Marion nudges me with her elbow. The cows are just across the canal now and I’m watching them eat. She is focused on the sunrise with a constant gaze toward the eastern horizon. The sun is just beginning to peek over the cloud, its light, like golden dew, settling on everything in sight.

She takes a picture with her phone. This one will be among hundreds of sunrises she has captured on her phone. The marvel, for her, never loses its wonder.

One of the cows has waded out into the lily pads, belly deep in water. He grazes at chin level, which looks convenient to me. Clever for a bovine brain.

But I wonder about the alligators. We’ve seen alligators out in those lily pads every day since we’ve been here. Could a 200lb alligator drag a 600lb cow down to his death? If so, Mr. Cow seems happily oblivious.

Our fishing days have been long. Some fishing warriors might disagree, but to me, 6 or 8 hours out on a boat is a long time. Cramped quarters. No facilities. Crackers and water. And, oh boy, the non-stop bobbing up and down.

There’s not much movement, but enough to keep you guessing where your next step might land. And after a few days, the peculiar thing is that my brain has gotten so used to the movement of the boat that my inner ear is playing tricks on me. When I get back on land, and especially when I stand still, I can feel the movement of the boat in my bones.

Sit at the table to eat and my chair is floating. Stand at the bathroom sink, and the mirror moves. Take a shower, close my eyes under the warm water, and I can feel the boat. I have to reach for the grab bar to steady myself in a small fiberglass shower that, with all certainty, is not moving.

Marion has moved to another vantage point. Her phone camera is clicking away. We don’t say much out here because it’s mostly about soaking up the beauty. There’s a kind of reverent awe standing before such a massive display of the Divine.

No One else could have done this. Every day since the earth first took form and the laws of the universe were set in place, the sun has risen over the eastern arch of the earth’s horizon. No two have ever been exactly alike. Each one distinct. Each one painted with a one-of-a-kind magnificence.

I can almost understand the ancients who worshipped the sun without knowing Who was behind it all. For a few brief minutes, the morning speaks, and the worries of life are lost in the splendor of the new day.

The sunrise is coming fast, now. It feels like the sun is slow to make its first appearance over the top of the clouds. But now that a partial orange orb is showing in all its blaze and glory, the progress seems to be moving at breakneck speed. Every second or so, more of the sun comes into view.

We humans are hurdling eastward at somewhere close to 1,000mph as the earth spins on its axis. We don’t feel the speed, but you can see it at sunrise as the sun moves upward past the edge of the clouds.

I tried to point out this interesting piece of information to Marion once upon a time at sunrise. Just a little factoid for ghee whiz purposes. I wanted to impress her with my astronomical wizardry.

She looked at me sideways and took another picture.

Sunrises are not about the science. Watching a sunrise is about the soul. It’s about finding wonder in a world that is way too cynical. It’s about finding the inspiration to make it through hard times. It’s about being captivated, transported, renewed, uplifted, restarted, recharged, and rejuvenated.

And it all happens in an expanse of the sky that cannot be seen with just a simple glance. It takes a long and wide stare to take in a sunrise. I guess that’s why the flat horizon and open sky over Lake Kissimmee makes it different down here. More breath taking.

At home, I get a glimmer of color through the trees and over the roof of the shop. I can’t see the full sky from my hole in the woods.

Standing here, it looks like I can see forever.

We finally turn and start back to the cabin.

“This is my favorite time of day,” she says.

From somewhere, the aroma of bacon cooking meets my olfactory sensors.

“Mine, too,” I say.

I like bacon.