Every morning we awaken to the sound of sky rolling over the cedars, aspens, pinyons, and sage without any great feeling as to the meaning which we should ascribe to it until a stone, a large boulder, rolls down from the momentary rest at the top of the hill where Sisyphus had left it the night before.
Joy.
Sisyphus running, hair wildly streaming behind, with a wide, open-mouthed grin on his face, legs pounding down the slope in absolute unfettered freedom, family, two and four legged, in tow; kin and next of kin, kids, cats, horses, dogs, cows, chickens, hogs, sheep and goats, behind the rolling stone.
Cacophony, the sound of joy.
Joy: what one feels as the stone breaks free rolling with reckless abandon to arrive again at rest on the plain below. Waiting. The stone breaks free and rolls of its own volition, an idea is born.
Awaken to the day Sisyphus, it is not to be wasted.
But first, let's roast a chicken.