Understanding Wordsworth

"This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning." -- William Wordsworth, Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

5:30 a.m.

                Madaba, as far as can be seen from my hotel window, is absolutely motionless in the early morning. The sun rises behind the rolling desert hills; its light, still soft for now, bathes the blocky buildings in a rosy glow. They become a collage of rectangles, broken here and there by a dome or an ancient archway, windows black against pale masonry. Tiny birds flit among the gutters and rooftops, their song the only sound. The heat of the day has not yet set in, and a cool breeze dances among the narrow leaves of the ubiquitous olive trees. It is a scene taken out of time, essentially unchanged for more than 1400 years.

                At home, there would be joggers out, cars on the road, people walking their dogs. Here, there is none of that. In the morning in Madaba, city of ancient churches, those who are awake are alone with themselves and the silent beauty of the sunrise.