"The Colors of Dawn" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The windows of Bean & Birch glowed like lanterns against the stubborn snowfall, each pane traced with rivulets where winter and spring argued quietly over who would stay.
Inside, however, spring had already won.
Maren stood behind a long wooden table covered in cups of dye—ruby red, sunburst yellow, lake-blue, and a green so bright it seemed to hum. Eggs rested in cartons like small, waiting worlds.
“Oh dear,” Lucy laughed, stepping back as Erica flicked a droplet of violet across the table. “We’ve gone from tasteful to…festival.”
“Art,” Erica corrected, holding up an egg streaked in wild, swirling color. “This is art.”
Bear lay near the hearth, observing with the solemn patience of a creature who had seen humans make questionable decisions before. Isabel, tucked cozily in Ethan’s jacket, watched every movement with bright, curious eyes.
Toby had somehow gotten green dye on his cheek. Martha’s fuchsia streak seemed to have deepened in color, as if in competition with the dyes. Tom and Sam worked more methodically—though Tom’s “methodical” still somehow resulted in speckles across his sleeves.
And then Sam—quiet, thoughtful Sam—set his brush down.
He looked at the small, imperfectly dyed egg in his hand, turning it slowly.
“You know,” he said, his voice gentle but carrying through the room, “this reminds me of a story.”
There was something about Sam when he said those words. The room softened. Even the clink of cups seemed to pause.
“Tell it,” Maren said, smiling.
Sam’s Story...
“In a village not so different from ours,” Sam began, “there lived a boy named Leo who didn’t believe much in legends.”
A few chuckles. That sounded familiar.
“But one early spring morning, when the snow had just begun to loosen its grip, Leo saw something…strange.”
Leo had been walking past the old oak at the edge of the meadow when he noticed it—a soft glow, tucked deep within the hollow.
Not bright. Not flashy. Just…alive.
Curious, he reached inside.
The egg he pulled out was warm—not like something left in the sun, but like something that was the sun.
And the moment he held it…
…the world breathed.
The brittle brown grass at his feet softened and turned green—not all at once, but in a ripple, like a quiet wave moving outward.
Nearby, a cluster of tulips stirred. Their petals opened with a delicate trembling, and though no one would ever quite explain it, Leo could have sworn they were humming.
Not loudly. Just enough to be felt.
Then came a voice.
“You’ve found it.”
Leo turned.
Standing beneath the oak was a rabbit—but not the sort one might expect. This one stood upright, wearing a waistcoat woven from moss and early leaves, its eyes bright with something ancient and kind.
“The egg carries the first light of spring,” the rabbit said. “But it belongs on the Hill of Dawn. That is where it must greet the rising sun.”
Leo blinked. “Or what?”
The rabbit hesitated, then smiled—not with worry, but with a kind of knowing.
“Or spring will take its time arriving. And sometimes,” he added, glancing toward the waking meadow, “the world needs a little encouragement.”
At that moment, a squirrel darted down from a branch, brushed the egg with its tail—and paused.
It blinked once.
Then, in the most dignified tone imaginable, it said, “Well. That was unexpected.”
Leo stared.
The rabbit sighed.
“Ah,” he murmured. “It’s begun.”
What followed was not chaos—at least, not the troubling kind—but something closer to joy uncontained.
A turtle moved with surprising enthusiasm.
Bees hummed a tune that seemed almost intentional.
Even the wind picked up, as if eager to be part of whatever was happening.
“It reacts to life,” the rabbit explained. “To curiosity. To delight. To…everything that remembers how to be alive.”
Leo looked at the egg, then at the widening glow of morning.
“How far is the hill?” he asked.
“Not far,” the rabbit said. “If you walk with purpose.”
And so they went.
Not in a rush, not in a panic—but with a kind of shared understanding.
The squirrel followed, offering commentary. The turtle followed, steadily. The bees followed, humming.
Step by step, Leo carried the warmth of the egg up the gentle rise toward the Hill of Dawn.
And as he walked, he noticed something:
Everywhere they passed, things seemed to wake just a little more.
At the top of the hill stood a simple stone.
Nothing grand. Nothing ornate.
Just a place.
“Here,” the rabbit said softly.
Leo placed the egg upon the stone.
The sun, just cresting the horizon, reached out in a single golden beam.
For a moment, everything stilled.
And then--
Light.
Not blinding. Not overwhelming.
Just…right.
The warmth spread outward, quiet and certain. The kind of warmth that doesn’t shout, but changes everything all the same.
The grass deepened in color. The air softened. Somewhere, water began to run.
Leo looked down.
Where the glowing egg had rested was now a simple one—small, ordinary, wrapped in a bit of foil.
He picked it up.
A gift.
A reminder.
The rabbit adjusted his mossy waistcoat.
“Well done,” he said.
Leo smiled. “Will I see you again?”
The rabbit’s eyes twinkled.
“Every spring,” he said. “In one way or another.”
And then he was gone...
Sam paused.
Around the table at Bean & Birch, no one spoke for a moment.
Even the dyes seemed to settle.
“Well,” Toby finally said, “that’s better than anything I’ve ever painted on an egg.”
Laughter returned, warm and easy.
But something had shifted—just a little.
Maren gently placed a newly dyed egg on the windowsill, where the soft morning light could find it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Outside, the snow continues its quiet insistence, as if winter has one last story to tell before stepping aside.
Inside the wee cottage, my coffee had grown cold while I lingered in that moment at Bean & Birch. I warm it, watch the steam rise once more, and take a slow sip.
Now it is right again.
From the speakers, Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 – Morning Mood—so often called Dawn—unfolds gently into the room, each note like light finding its way across the world.
And I think about eggs.
Simple things, really.
And yet…not simple at all.
For thousands of years, across cultures and beliefs, the egg has carried meaning far beyond its fragile shell:
And perhaps that is what lingers with me most this morning:
An egg looks still. Inactive. Finished.
But within it…everything is becoming.
I take another sip of coffee.
Hot. Steady. Present.
Outside, the snow will melt. The swallows will return. The lake will open. The world will turn, as it always has.
And within each of us—quietly, patiently—something is always beginning again.
So perhaps today is not about waiting for spring to arrive.
Perhaps it is about recognizing that it already has…in small ways, in gentle ways, in ways that ask only that we notice.
And like Leo, like Sam, like all of us gathered in warmth and laughter--
we carry a bit of that light forward.
“And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke
~Wylddane
Inside, however, spring had already won.
Maren stood behind a long wooden table covered in cups of dye—ruby red, sunburst yellow, lake-blue, and a green so bright it seemed to hum. Eggs rested in cartons like small, waiting worlds.
“Oh dear,” Lucy laughed, stepping back as Erica flicked a droplet of violet across the table. “We’ve gone from tasteful to…festival.”
“Art,” Erica corrected, holding up an egg streaked in wild, swirling color. “This is art.”
Bear lay near the hearth, observing with the solemn patience of a creature who had seen humans make questionable decisions before. Isabel, tucked cozily in Ethan’s jacket, watched every movement with bright, curious eyes.
Toby had somehow gotten green dye on his cheek. Martha’s fuchsia streak seemed to have deepened in color, as if in competition with the dyes. Tom and Sam worked more methodically—though Tom’s “methodical” still somehow resulted in speckles across his sleeves.
And then Sam—quiet, thoughtful Sam—set his brush down.
He looked at the small, imperfectly dyed egg in his hand, turning it slowly.
“You know,” he said, his voice gentle but carrying through the room, “this reminds me of a story.”
There was something about Sam when he said those words. The room softened. Even the clink of cups seemed to pause.
“Tell it,” Maren said, smiling.
Sam’s Story...
“In a village not so different from ours,” Sam began, “there lived a boy named Leo who didn’t believe much in legends.”
A few chuckles. That sounded familiar.
“But one early spring morning, when the snow had just begun to loosen its grip, Leo saw something…strange.”
Leo had been walking past the old oak at the edge of the meadow when he noticed it—a soft glow, tucked deep within the hollow.
Not bright. Not flashy. Just…alive.
Curious, he reached inside.
The egg he pulled out was warm—not like something left in the sun, but like something that was the sun.
And the moment he held it…
…the world breathed.
The brittle brown grass at his feet softened and turned green—not all at once, but in a ripple, like a quiet wave moving outward.
Nearby, a cluster of tulips stirred. Their petals opened with a delicate trembling, and though no one would ever quite explain it, Leo could have sworn they were humming.
Not loudly. Just enough to be felt.
Then came a voice.
“You’ve found it.”
Leo turned.
Standing beneath the oak was a rabbit—but not the sort one might expect. This one stood upright, wearing a waistcoat woven from moss and early leaves, its eyes bright with something ancient and kind.
“The egg carries the first light of spring,” the rabbit said. “But it belongs on the Hill of Dawn. That is where it must greet the rising sun.”
Leo blinked. “Or what?”
The rabbit hesitated, then smiled—not with worry, but with a kind of knowing.
“Or spring will take its time arriving. And sometimes,” he added, glancing toward the waking meadow, “the world needs a little encouragement.”
At that moment, a squirrel darted down from a branch, brushed the egg with its tail—and paused.
It blinked once.
Then, in the most dignified tone imaginable, it said, “Well. That was unexpected.”
Leo stared.
The rabbit sighed.
“Ah,” he murmured. “It’s begun.”
What followed was not chaos—at least, not the troubling kind—but something closer to joy uncontained.
A turtle moved with surprising enthusiasm.
Bees hummed a tune that seemed almost intentional.
Even the wind picked up, as if eager to be part of whatever was happening.
“It reacts to life,” the rabbit explained. “To curiosity. To delight. To…everything that remembers how to be alive.”
Leo looked at the egg, then at the widening glow of morning.
“How far is the hill?” he asked.
“Not far,” the rabbit said. “If you walk with purpose.”
And so they went.
Not in a rush, not in a panic—but with a kind of shared understanding.
The squirrel followed, offering commentary. The turtle followed, steadily. The bees followed, humming.
Step by step, Leo carried the warmth of the egg up the gentle rise toward the Hill of Dawn.
And as he walked, he noticed something:
Everywhere they passed, things seemed to wake just a little more.
At the top of the hill stood a simple stone.
Nothing grand. Nothing ornate.
Just a place.
“Here,” the rabbit said softly.
Leo placed the egg upon the stone.
The sun, just cresting the horizon, reached out in a single golden beam.
For a moment, everything stilled.
And then--
Light.
Not blinding. Not overwhelming.
Just…right.
The warmth spread outward, quiet and certain. The kind of warmth that doesn’t shout, but changes everything all the same.
The grass deepened in color. The air softened. Somewhere, water began to run.
Leo looked down.
Where the glowing egg had rested was now a simple one—small, ordinary, wrapped in a bit of foil.
He picked it up.
A gift.
A reminder.
The rabbit adjusted his mossy waistcoat.
“Well done,” he said.
Leo smiled. “Will I see you again?”
The rabbit’s eyes twinkled.
“Every spring,” he said. “In one way or another.”
And then he was gone...
Sam paused.
Around the table at Bean & Birch, no one spoke for a moment.
Even the dyes seemed to settle.
“Well,” Toby finally said, “that’s better than anything I’ve ever painted on an egg.”
Laughter returned, warm and easy.
But something had shifted—just a little.
Maren gently placed a newly dyed egg on the windowsill, where the soft morning light could find it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Outside, the snow continues its quiet insistence, as if winter has one last story to tell before stepping aside.
Inside the wee cottage, my coffee had grown cold while I lingered in that moment at Bean & Birch. I warm it, watch the steam rise once more, and take a slow sip.
Now it is right again.
From the speakers, Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 – Morning Mood—so often called Dawn—unfolds gently into the room, each note like light finding its way across the world.
And I think about eggs.
Simple things, really.
And yet…not simple at all.
For thousands of years, across cultures and beliefs, the egg has carried meaning far beyond its fragile shell:
- A symbol of new life, of something waiting quietly before it becomes.
- A reminder of rebirth, of the world beginning again even when it seems frozen still.
- A reflection of resurrection, of hope that rises when we least expect it.
And perhaps that is what lingers with me most this morning:
An egg looks still. Inactive. Finished.
But within it…everything is becoming.
I take another sip of coffee.
Hot. Steady. Present.
Outside, the snow will melt. The swallows will return. The lake will open. The world will turn, as it always has.
And within each of us—quietly, patiently—something is always beginning again.
So perhaps today is not about waiting for spring to arrive.
Perhaps it is about recognizing that it already has…in small ways, in gentle ways, in ways that ask only that we notice.
And like Leo, like Sam, like all of us gathered in warmth and laughter--
we carry a bit of that light forward.
“And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke
~Wylddane
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