Why am I so happy to see the sunrise and smell her sweet fragrance? I may not explain exactly, but this is why.

Before now, I slept like a log, snoring away, unconscious of the world’s drama. Nocturnal creatures crept, and birds hooted. The night is innocently quiet, but it may have consumed many. My windows are open, the whistling pines sang a lullaby. Soft rain drums on the rooftop. Pata-pata was her fair rhythm. The wind accompanied the rhythm with an invisible guitar, addressing my bed. Cool breeze rips, blowing kisses, caressing the man who sleeps. It wooed him to dreamland, where he could see beautiful things. All this while, I am a man—bones and flesh, helpless only to Providence and her benevolence.

The sun’s glamour lit the skies; it woke man. Golden rays filter through the curtain, welcoming a new day. Outside, blue clouds wait, and there the green field lies wet with dew. Grasshoppers, beetles, and crickets play in them. When stick insects fly, their zithering wings create a tune. Termites are busy moving their quarry. Mantises cling like monkeys to tree leaves. Trees are calm, resting after the long, cold night. Squirrels play up their branches, the wind their surfboard. Egrets, pigeons, turtle doves, skylarks, bluebirds, and others enjoy the fresh air. Their cries fill the horizon with hope, speaking of gratitude and joy, of seeing a new day. Grey and brown mushrooms sprout, squeezing out little umbrella citadels for ants—some shaped like the anthill down the road. Bright flowers dance in the morning breeze, dressed in different colors: white and purple, green and yellow, red and pink, or blue and orange. Their stalks form a perfectly uniform, seamless line, each glamorous in her pretty dress. The canopy of green grass expands each morning. There’s carpet grass, Mother Nature’s rug. There’s guinea grass, tall enough to hide bugs and worms. Butterflies roam the garden, sunlight behind their backs. Tree leaves fall in circles, meeting the wind at the foot of the trees. A stronger wind gladly sweeps them all over the garden—a queer rollercoaster without wheels. Yet, sunlight comes in installments, watching over all.

I have a friend who checks on my window every morning. She admires herself in the glass mirror. From the other side, I laugh at her fluffy beauty. She sits with her straight beak on a funny face. Two swift, broom-like legs hold her big body. Those legs, like a perfect weightlifter’s, lack muscle. Black feathers with white underbellies remind me of myself whenever I wear a black suit. ‘But why are you so pretty every morning?’ I wonder. I smell the flowers nearby—hibiscus and flamboyant—different colors, many scents—diversity’s strength. But color has no scent. The wet clay smells nice, too; in it, the bullfrog family lives. The garden is a large theater—a world of its own. If I ever knew the wind’s tune, I would sing with her. She sings slowly, sometimes high, sometimes low. So I hum inside and whistle when overwhelmed. I craft a song in my mind, trusting she keeps my tune secret.

I am grateful for the song on the roof, for the tiny angels disguised as birds that wake me, for the cool breeze that makes sleep enjoyable, for the night rains that sing me lullabies, and for the green garden and its thriving fauna and flora. For dew wetting my feet as I walk through the green grass, for the insects and birds greeting the morning with beautiful songs, for the love, joy, peace, and hope each bright morning brings. Gratitude remains the best attitude.

Do you now see why I feel happy when I see sunlight? To me, living means being grateful.