By Yin Shi (音十)

“Daylight Symphony”

By the fifth ring of my alarm, the sparrows outside were already having breakfast. These little creatures are far more diligent than I am, hopping along the burglar bars like they’re playing a game of hopscotch. I sat up with messy hair and saw that last night’s unfinished homework was still sprawled out on my desk, its pages rustling in the morning breeze, bathed in dawn’s glow.

When I opened the window, the sparrows in the corner all turned to look at me in unison. Tilting their tiny heads, they looked just like students caught off guard when called on in class. I clapped my hands loudly on purpose, and those timid little things flapped away in a panic, like someone had tossed sesame seeds into the air. A feather drifted slowly into my palm, warm from the touch of the sun.

Sunlight is such a nosy old man. As soon as I squeezed out some toothpaste, it barged into the bathroom and pinned my shadow to the tiled wall. In the mirror, I still had foam on my lips, while the morning glories on the balcony were already all dressed up, twirling gracefully in the breeze. The balls of yarn that Mom had hung out to dry swayed on the clothesline—perhaps the shadows tangled among them are hiding the sun’s little secrets?

The cobblestone alley at the end of the street was damp, and the soybean milk vendor’s tricycle jingled as it rolled by. Where the wheels passed, they left two glistening trails behind, like a silver necklace draped across the morning lane. The big orange cat sleeping in the flowerbed was startled awake; as it stretched, its arched back caught a stream of flowing sunlight. Granny Wang lifted the lid of her wooden barrel. Thick white steam, rich with the smell of soybeans, floated into the air, tinting the morning light the color of sweet soy milk.

Around the corner, the whole street suddenly lit up. The plane trees had sliced the sunlight into shimmering golden foil and laid out a glowing carpet on the ground. Children with red scarves around their necks chased patches of light, their metal pencil cases clanging in their backpacks like they carried little orchestras with them. A girl with pigtails crouched by the roadside, using her shadow to shade some moving ants—surely part of a secret agreement she made with Mr. Sun.

On the playground, the old pagoda tree was throwing a sunlight party. Every leaf held up a golden goblet, pouring out honeyed sunlight. The class duty students' brooms danced in the sunbeams like countless tiny fairies in golden dresses. A teacher walked beneath the tree with an armful of homework; the pages rustled in the wind like doves about to take flight.

On the classroom windowsill, the pothos plant was quietly sipping sunlight. Our reading voices shook the mist off the windows, and the plant took the chance to sprout a brand-new leaf with a sudden burst. A ginkgo leaf bookmark slipped from a chubby boy’s textbook in the back row, floating in the sunlight down the aisle like a little boat carrying an ancient poem.

The whistle for morning exercises startled the pigeons off the flagpole. Their flapping shadows darted across the red brick walls like moving ink paintings. As we stretched our arms, the wind puffed into our sleeves, making them balloon like colorful little sailboats. The whole playground swayed with our footsteps, like a giant cradle rocking gently on a sea of sunshine.

Just before the noon dismissal bell rang, I saw the sparrows again. They were perched on the air conditioner unit, listening to us read aloud. Their little heads bobbed rhythmically, as if keeping time for our recital. A downy feather floated into the classroom and landed right at the end of my freshly written essay: “We are all children raised by the sunshine.”

On the way home, I passed the same big orange cat from the morning. Now it was wrapped in a golden blanket woven from the setting sun, snoring peacefully among the honeysuckle. Granny Wang’s tricycle creaked past me, carrying a load of bright red evening clouds in the back. Turns out, when the sun gets off work, it shares its leftover candy with the sky.

At night, lying in bed, I saw moonlight tucking the glories of the day on the windowsill beneath a silver blanket. Holding the sparrow feather I picked up that morning, I suddenly understood—the sun is always playing hide-and-seek with us. In the morning, it climbs out from the eastern wardrobe; at night, it hides inside the western drawer. When my alarm rings again tomorrow, a bunch of fluffy little alarm clocks will be waiting on the windowsill to wake me up and help me unwrap a brand-new, golden morning gift.