The interstate pre-dawn moving north.  Driving on to the urban outerbelt, multi-lanes of red and white lights all going fast in the dark I was struck by a sense of our oneness as cells in a body, each with its own purpose and mission.  Now, a few minutes later, I am alone and not, muted headlights in the rearview of traffic winnowed down as we left the city behind, at a shared pace to be both one and several.  The sky a deep inky blue with one bright star and a slim crescent moon clear in the cold air whenever I bend forward to catch a glimpse up through the windshield.  My only sound George Winston’s piano, note after note save the occasional blink, blink, blink of the turn signal, changing lanes.  Smooth, quiet, a peaceful going.  A broad brush stroke announces itself along the right horizon, its red-orange the same as those of the turning Winterberries at home.  The color fuzzes into the deep blue along its top edge.  Grey-black streaks of left over plane trails form an odd pattern through it, mostly horizontal, a few upward gashes for interest.  The far off line of trees solid dark smudges against the color of sun’s coming.  My breath catches, heart skips.  Ponds along the highway’s side come up, white fog in a misty rising past their bank’s trees, stark dark silhouette stencils brightening the orange horizon.  The piano keys fingered in a whispered lilt marries the pond, mist, sunrise, moon and stars to my heart.  It squeezes.  It melts.  Tears well.  Beauty. Joy.