7 a.m. in Idaho
7 a.m. in Idaho is looking through the gossamer of light.
There is a distinct scent early in the morning, one that dissolves as the sweat of afternoon settles in and is then replaced by the cool ushering of nightfall. It is the scent of wet grass and frigid, fresh air brought on by an indisputable sunrise seeping in across the wide, untouched skies. There is a feeling that something grand is upon you. Sometimes, the sun is eager to declare herself a living thing. It can feel like watching a prodigy at work, a magician of mythical heights. This morning, though, there is tranquility to the way she arrives. Above me, the skies are woven with thick rows of purple outlined with a bright undertow of pink.
I awoke when everything was still coated with darkness. Then, I sauntered outside to walk along the edges of the fields. I like to see the world unfurl, inch by methodical inch. A bird sings an acute aria from some unseen branch. I feel small. I have made myself a witness, forced myself to reckon with the temperament of the universe. To forgo ego and admit there is more than myself. It isn’t easy. It is hard to look at what does not need me. There was a world before me. All of the crustaceans squirming with a primordial electricity now hardened into dull fossils. How the first humans must have believed that each sunrise was a miracle. And how right they were to think so.
When I head back inside, I find my aunt puttering around the kitchen. Opening the curtains to allow light to seethe through the room in faint gasps. And she, as I have just done, looks out upon the sprawling fields, that darling, wide ceiling. She knows she is in a sacred place. Each morning, God approaches her doorstep, more tangible and present than at any other point of the awaiting day. He comes bearing gifts.
He hangs low.
About the Author
Jasmine Ledesma is a writer based in New York. Her work has appeared in or is set to appear in places such as Crazyhorse, Rattle, and [PANK] among others. Her work has been nominated for Best of The Net and twice for the Pushcart Prize. She was named a Brooklyn Poets fellow in 2021. Her novella Shrine was listed as a finalist for the Clay Reynolds Novella Prize. Her poem was highly commended by Warsan Shire for the Moth Poetry Prize.
Illustration by Sarah Muren.
