When I headed out to Gilford one recent morning, the sun had not come over the horizon yet. Its light colored the clouds in luminous pinks. The blue between the clouds deepened from the pearlescent sheen of pre-dawn to the richer hue of hopeful morning.
If only the air at ground level could match the sweetness of the play of light above it.
Commuting morning and evening for decades, I've verified one thing. Breakfast time does not smell nearly as enticing as supper time. While the evening commuter often floats through clouds of cookout smoke in summer and savory sauces and stews in the cooler months, breakfast any time does not put out the same quality of mouth-watering odors. Eggs any style tend to have a sulphurous tinge. Boiling oatmeal steam can't compete with barbecued spare ribs. Frying bacon does its best to overcome the weak players in the breakfast lineup, but one strong player can't carry a whole team.
Worse yet, there's no delicate way to say that most people experience another digestive event in the morning, evidence of which joins the steamy funk drifting from most residences on the early breeze. Don't believe me? Put in 30 years commuting on the early shift and then we'll compare notes.