His hands hurt. Yeah, he should’ve worn a jacket. He had thought about wearing one, but gee-whiz, it couldn’t be that cold. After all, it was barely August, but cold it was.

He liked walking in the morning, early in the morning. Today, like most days, he started around 6:30. Although the sun was still over the horizon, the first pink rays colored the cloudless sky. All around lay a sparkling layer of dew. Yeah, it was a beautiful dawn.

Dawn, his favorite part of the day; the world briefly suspended between night and day, barely stirring. It had always been his favorite time, maybe because he was an early riser, or perhaps he was an early riser because he loved the dawn. He didn’t know which, and he gave it little thought. All he knew was that come five o’clock in the morning, he would be wide awake. It had always been that way. In fact, he joked that he had gotten his Dad’s milking gene.

He was walking beside the golf course now, and wishing he had pockets. It was quiet, except for the psst – psst – psst of an unseen sprinkler, barely audible over the distant buzzing of cicadas. It was morning, and all was well in the world.

The sky lightened and with the coming of the sun, the air filled with birdsong. Softly at first, then building to a crescendo as more birds awoke.

Earlier, when he passed the hospital, the air was thick with the heady aroma of bacon and french toast. An ironic torture considering his new diet. Now, as he turned the corner near the golf course, wood smoke hung in the still air. He figured that somebody had started a fireplace to keep warm. Boy, he wished he’d worn a jacket.

Just then, a car passed. Someone heading home from work, he guessed. That would be the only car he’d see this morning. It was Sunday, so traffic was slow. Earlier in the week, however, the roads were clogged with cars. Folks trudging to work, or kids to school. Yes, today he was lucky, he had the street to himself. The solitude was refreshing, invigorating.

In the park, he passed two kindred souls, each dutifully hiking around the lake. He had encountered them every morning since he had started these walks. Like ships in the night, they spoke briefly and then continued on their separate ways. He supposed that like him they also had the milking gene.

An hour after he started, he turned into his drive. The Sunday paper was in the box, and he skimmed the headlines. Nothing sparked his interest, so he folded it under one arm, and watched a squirrel pick out a nut.

Although it wasn’t in the paper, today was a minor milestone. At least it was for him. You see, today marked the fifteenth week since his little episode – his heart attack. It also marked his sixtieth-morning walk. Four months ago, when he got out of the hospital, a ten-minute walk was all he could do; now he could walk for an hour at a time. He had Connie in Cardiac Rehab to thank for that.

Reflecting on his progress, he smiled – perhaps he’d finally found a good use for this milking gene.

David L Dahl.

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