a golden day

It is a golden day, and the sun is rising at the edge of an unkempt field of tall grass. Each blade is swaying in the gentle wind, like a child rocking loosly back and forth in the warmth of the morning sun. I see the water glistening in the distance, and I sit on the edge of the black rock, mustering the desire to go on living this way for another day. The sunrise is complete, and the full circle of the firey sun rests on the edge of the earth, daring me to make the first move. Then it continues to creep into the sky, unable to hold it's ground due to the inevitable turning of the earth, the unstoppable passing of time, the undaunted ticking of the watch in my pocket. I hear the faint whispers of those blades of grass, brushing against one another playfully, encompassing me in nature's soothing kindness. Like a needle poking at my sensitive skin is the mechanical tick, tick, tick as I slowly, resignedly pull the pocket watch from my skirt. Five A.M., and I had better head off to get the water, to start breakfast, to nourish another day. I wonder how I could be so cynical, so bitter about being alive, when so many millions could not watch the sun rise on this golden day. But one thing inspires me to rise from the rock, to slide through the tall grass toward the mirror-like surface of the crystal pure water--his voice, the reason I am alive, when he says "Good Morning..."