Rose-fingered Indeed

I rolled over and looked at the clock. 5:30 a.m. If I didn’t move fast, I was going to miss it. I quickly got dressed, grabbed my camera, and headed for the beach. My hotel room was high up on the slope at the now five-star Imperial Samui and I had to rush along the curving pathways through the rich foliage of the landscaping careful not to step on the occasional frog. The artificial waterfalls and stream were still shut off for the night and there were no staff about. I stopped at one of the pools to see that even the carp were still asleep. After a moment, one of them must have noticed me and they swam in a scramble only to reassemble in essentially the same place and formation. I heard footsteps and rushed on, checking the sky. The clack of beach clogs was gaining on me, loud and frantic. I came into the pool area and checked the horizon. I took up a position to watch, and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. There they were: two of them with such squeals of triumph and faces beaming with joy. I watched quietly as the two German women grabbed beach towels from the as yet unattended beach station and laid claim to two deck chairs in prime positions poolside. Relieved they returned to their rooms. Moments later, the sun slipped up over the horizon.

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