From the first dawn of creation
to the end of time
our world, our lives,
and every living thing
are attuned to a cosmic song
a celestial cadence
of light and dark
of ebb and flow
of heat and cold
all set into motion by the epic
dance of the sun, moon, and earth.
These are the rhythms of life itself.
Before there could be day or night
before there was a spring or fall
a star, our sun,
had to flare into life.
From the seething stuff of stars,
over time, the planets of
our solar system took shape.
Four billion years ago, or more,
one such place was born
the planet called, Earth,
our home.
But for nearly a billion years,
it would be a home inhospitable
to any form of life
a red and angry globe
a churning mass of fire, poison gas,
and molten rock
At the core of the planet
raged an inferno.
For thousands upon thousands
of centuries,
this infant planet suffered the
violent pains of growth and change,
as it formed and reformed itself.
From the very beginning,
the earth knew night and day.
But a night and day
not like any we know now.
Fueled by the forces of creation,
the earth raced through
its daily cycle,
spinning five times as fast
as it does today.
A few brief hours of starlight.
A few brief hours of sun.
Day followed night at a dizzying pace.
Earth and sun were not alone
in their orbits.
But cosmic visitors
rarely came to stay
until one cataclysmic encounter
transformed the heavens
and earth forever.
One theory tells of a cosmic accident
a huge asteroid
on a collision course.
It may have been the birth of the moon
and so many of
the rhythms of life.
But first, the moon would have been
a cloud of fragments,
circling the planet like
the rings of Saturn
before coming together into
a huge, barren satellite.
Too small to hold a
protective atmosphere,
the moon itself has long been
bombarded by debris ever since.
Without wind or rain
to smooth the scars,
its face bears everlasting witness to
the violent nature of outer space.
On the earth below,
an atmosphere was brewing from endless
clouds of poison gasses
and water vapor,
expelled from beneath the crust.
Closer to the sun, the precious water
might have boiled away.
On a colder planet it would be
locked into eternal ice.
But on the earth,
water vapor condensed
falling back as rain upon the land.
And so the first oceans were born.
Over millions of years,
the seas rose to flood the earth.
But these were not the cool,
life-giving waters we know today.
The primal atmosphere provided
little protection.
It had no blanket of ozone
to filter out lethal radiation.
Virtually unobstructed,
the sun's unforgiving rays seared
whatever they touched.
Much closer than now,
the moon also played a violent part,
tugging at the seas with a force
countless times greater than today.
The first tides were mountains
of water, miles high.
Torn by sun and moon, the surface
waters offered no hope for life.
Still, there was sanctuary below.
In the ocean, the first building
blocks of life amino acids emerged.
They incubated in water heated by
the planet's internal fires
and fed on a bubbling broth
of nutrients
straight from the heart of the earth.
But even the ocean's depths were not
safe from a cataclysmic universe.
In a galaxy still littered
with the debris of genesis,
asteroid strikes may have vaporized
the oceans, laying the seabed bare.
More than once, life on earth
may have been snuffed out.
Yet the fire and rains of creation
kept their hold on earth,
and the oceans rose again.
Life has proven stubborn here.
Some three billion years ago, as the
earth cooled and calmed once again,
new forms appeared, the heralds
of life as we understand it.
In quiet, sheltered pools,
algae spread.
Colonies of single-celled organisms,
they thrived off abundant sunlight
and carbon dioxide.
And in their waste they left behind
oxygen, the precious breath of life.
This was the birth of photosynthesis,
a new, life-giving cycle
that transformed the earth.
For countless millennia,
algae flourished in the brief days
so bright with sun.
And now the cosmic rhythms
were changing.
Gradually, the moon and its tides
slowed the earth's mad spinning,
and the forces that bound planet and
satellite together loosened their hold.
The moon retreated to
where she stands today,
still slipping imperceptibly
away over time.
With the moon more distant,
the tides fell.
Calmer waters bred more algae
and more oxygen.
And with the oxygen came ozone,
protection from the sun's
most lethal rays.
At last, the stage was set
for the next phase of creation.
Like the fire of a new sun, the spark
of new life appeared in the waters.
Still just single-celled plants,
but organisms far more complex
than any that had come before.
Within each was a genetic code
that reflected the rhythms
of earth and heaven,
a biological clock
to guide their lives.
Daytime would be the time
to feed on the power of the sun.
Reproduction would be saved
for the shelter of night.
Millions of years later,
this clock still synchronizes almost
all life to the very spin of the planet.
From the depths of a steep-walled
lagoon
in the South Pacific island of Palau,
a herd of underwater farmers
rises to meet the dawn.
A swarm of jellyfish,
tens of thousands strong.
Without eyes, the jellyfish do not
use the light to see.
They need it to grow their food
gardens of brown algae
that flourish within their
transparent bodies.
Denied sunshine,
they would starve.
As the sun arcs overhead,
shadows of the surrounding walls
darken the surface of the lagoon.
Just below, the jellyfish ferry their
microscopic passengers,
keeping them always in the light.
When the sun sinks,
so do the jellyfish,
dropping down to the ocean floor
where the algae can find their own
nourishment.
Even without sight, the jellyfish will
know when the sun returns again.
In the surface waters of the oceans
most creatures take their cue
to feed or rest
from the rhythm
of light and dark.
Now, members of the night
shift hurry to take the stage.
Roused by light-sensitive cells that
announce the return of darkness,
these prickly browsers
set out to graze.
Sea urchins find their prey
and their way around
by touch and by taste.
Each night clouds of plankton rise
from the deep to feed
drawing out the coral who fish
the waters with feathery nets.
A few, sharp-eyed fish operate by
sight in the dim light before dawn.
Like a cat in the dark, the lionfish
can pick out its prey.
The lionfish will slip into a crevice
to hide from the daytime;
eyes sensitive enough for half light
may be too delicate for bright sun.
Daybreak brings the morning
rush hour to the reef.
Far more complex than jellyfish
or sea urchins,
most fish depend on sight to survive.
Without the sun they are virtually
blind to navigate their world,
to find their food,
or signal to their kind.
A kaleidoscope of colors enhances
the play of daylight on the reef.
For the fish, stripe and hue holds
clues and communications,
helping them to identify mates,
predators, and prey
in the busy rainbow of the reef.
Trailing twilight in its wake,
a manta ray flies in,
to harvest plankton when again
they rise with evening.
Sunlight fades, taking with it
the world of color,
and the day shift streams off the
reef for the safety of deeper water.
And once again,
the great earth wheels round.
The line between light and darkness
divides those that live by land
as well as the creatures of the sea.
And even the land and sea themselves
breathe with the rhythms
of day and night.
Given off by day,
water vapor now rises, cools,
and condenses in the night air.
From earth, through plants,
into the air,
and back to the earth again
the endless cycles of replenishment
and renewal.
The plants of this Australian
rain forest
have been in tune with the rhythms
of the sun for eons.
Here, an acacia tree wakes up
and stretches for the dawn.
Like a sundial in the trees,
the play of light and shadow
across the forest floor marks
the turning of the planet.
A shifting pool of light holds
treasure for plants and animals alike.
Sunbathers under the leafy canopy,
many plants collect much of their
energy during brief interludes of light.
A boastful bird takes this spotlight
for a stage.
In the dark, his finery is invisible,
meaningless.
Only by day can the male riflebird
capitalize on his gaudy attire.
His appearance, like a feathered,
black-and-white rose,
has been calculated by evolution to
entice females to his side.
A vibrant, sunlit display,
all about sex,
as crisp as the snapping of a fan.
The last hours before sunset often
inspire a flurry of movement.
Once the sun fails,
most birds will lose their powers
of sight and of flight.
They gorge in preparation
for the fast to come.
Color and flair are an advertisement
for plants too.
Their brightly hued fruit
attracts birds,
and with the feast the cycle of life
and rebirth will continue.
For after eating,
the birds will spread the seeds
of new plants far and wide.
While most creatures of the air
depend on the bright of day,
others like fruit bats, are tuned to
more nocturnal rhythms.
All day they had been invisible,
sleeping in the shadows,
saving their energy against
the hot sun.
Now twilight signals to them,
a silent summons.
The bats scramble and take control of
the air the birds have left behind.
Millions crowd the sky,
ever graceful, never colliding.
Foraging in darkness,
the bats have turned to senses
other than sight to find their way.
They navigate the night by sound,
until they find a likely spot
for a meal.
By moonlight,
plants need a different lure
to attract visitors' perfume.
Little is more savory to these bats
than the scent of
ripe blossoms and fruit.
And once they take their fill,
like birds,
they carry seeds everywhere they fly,
assuring the future of
their favorite foods.
The rising moon offers
a gentle promise,
cooling relief from the heat
of the day.
And many creatures bide their time
until the evening hours.
Other mammals have also learned
to maneuver through the midnight air,
like Australia's sugar gliders.
With their built-in parachute,
a sugar glider can span the length
of a football field.
It may seem a bold leap of faith,
but they're only following
family footsteps.
By smearing their scent
upon the branches,
they blaze invisible trails
for their kin to follow.
Their search for insects, sap,
and nectars
carries the gliders into the night.
Like bats, they survey the dark
with sensitive noses.
This evening harvest keeps
these squirrel-like creatures
safe from the predators of day.
Instinct warns them to be back
in their nests by dawn,
before sharp-eyed hawks and eagles
take to the skies.
For millions of years,
mammals were the masters of the night.
In prehistoric days dominated by
dinosaurs, smaller, warm-blooded animals
took advantage of the relative safety
of the darker hours.
But the days when mammals were forced
to hide from the coning of the light
are long since over.
Now, in rain forests round the world,
near the top of the evolutionary ladder,
you'll find agile tree-toppers ready
and willing to celebrate their place
in the sun.
These proud primates,
central American howler monkeys,
inaugurate each day
with a morning chorus,
staking their claim to the trees
and life at the top.
Higher still cling their smaller
cousins, the spider monkeys.
With few natural enemies
they rule the roost.
Grasping hands and feet give them
confidence to live life out on a limb.
And evolution has given them
a whole new point of view
stereoscopic vision.
It gives them the ability to judge
distance precisely an.
And invaluable skill
when hurtling through the treetops
Somewhere deep
in the prehistoric past,
the human line diverged from
that of monkeys and apes.
And even if we no longer get to
work vine to vine,
we still share common genes
and heritage,
and an attachment to
the daytime hours.
It's programming imprinted on us both
by the ever circling sun
and its cold celestial partner.
Lunar rhythms cast long shadows
over daily life on earth.
Though the mile-high tides of creation
have shrunk to swells of mere feet,
the rise and fall of the oceans
still exerts a powerful force.
From 240,000 miles away,
the moon's pull wields power
enough to carve the coastline
and buoy up the polar ice.
Four times a day,
the sea scours the coast,
always retreating, always returning.
It's a force both destructive
and life-giving.
Many creatures thrive here, on the
shifting boundary between sea and land.
On gentler shorelines,
each time the tide retreats,
it leaves behind a feeding ground
replenished by the sea.
The lull between high tides
sees a race for survival,
a race against the lunar clock.
These scavengers must
feed their fill now.
Sand-bubbler crabs pick food
from the net of the sand,
sorting out trapped particles of
seaweed and other plants.
They leave behind
delicate spheres of sand.
It's a temporary testament
to their labors.
Combing the territory
around their burrow,
they scar the sand with their tracks,
each lone scavenger attending to
its own hunting ground.
Other creatures march boldly forward
with the strength of numbers.
Soldier crabs sweeping the shore
in battalions.
Mostly males,
they work together by the hundreds,
exhausting each plot of land
before moving on.
An army of crabs,
a living tide of hungry hunters.
But no army can defend against
the moon, and they know it.
The crabs' parade grounds
will be deserted
by the time the tide marches back
to claim it.
As water replaces land, those
that can, take to the air.
Here the moon is mistress.
She sets the rhythm of life
at all hours,
low tide is time to eat;
high tide, the time to rest.
Wading birds make the best of life
at the shore.
Stilts for legs let them follow the
waters' edge as it ebbs and flows.
Beyond the sandy shore,
the tide floods up
through the clutching fingers,
the roots, of mangrove trees.
Here in the muddy flats,
the fiddlers dig their wells,
preparing for the tide's return.
For these engineers,
the last act before the flood
is to batten down the hatches
with a fresh cut plug of mud.
They'll wait out the flood submerged
in underground burrows.
Like wading birds, the mangroves
will weather the waves on stilts.
The rhythm of the tides beats
both night and day.
For whenever the tide is low,
the shore's inhabitants
will come out to feed,
by sunlight, moonlight,
or in the glimmer of the stars.
Behind this constant ebb and flow
beats a second, slower tidal rhythm,
a cadence that for many,
spurs the times of mating and of birth.
This is the lunar cycle,
the month-long dance of earth,
satellite, and sun
that paints the changing faces
of the moon.
Twice each month,
the sun and moon conspire
to raise the level of the tides.
At the new moon and at the full,
the gravity of both our star
and our satellite aligns,
lifting the tide to its
greatest height.
In between,
the tides are at their weakest.
This monthly cycle of tides touches
creatures of the sea
in a place deeper then the daily
rhythms of feeding and rest.
A pair of male parrot fish swirl around
each other, jockeying for supremacy.
Their competition is a sure sign
that the full moon is on the rise.
This dance heralds the
spawning season.
When the full moon tide begins to ebb,
the females will release their eggs.
With the tug of the ebb tide,
the mating frenzy begins.
Thousands of fish, male and female,
dash through each others' wakes,
casting clouds of eggs and
sperm together into the tide.
One breed's spawn is another's feast.
Predators join the tumult,
to feed their fill on eggs.
But the spawning fish know
how to play the odds.
They have fertilized tens of
millions of eggs.
Millions will escape, pulled out to
deeper waters by the outgoing tide.
At high water, the surf storms back
over the reef,
sweeping schools of tiny fish
into the lagoon.
A silvery cloud flashing on
a watery wind.
For many, this will be
the last moment in the sun.
Trapped in quiet,
shallow waters,
they make easy prey for hunters
circling above the surface.
Moon, fish, and birds all whirling
in their own perfect harmony.
This black-naped tern lives a life
scored to the music of the tides.
On the shore, females have laid
claim to nesting sites
and some have already begun
to lay eggs as well.
While one bird minds the nest,
its mate fishes the shallows.
These seabirds time their breeding
cycle to coincide with the easy prey
washed into the lagoon
by the full moon tides.
Now is the time to eat heartily.
Soon the chicks will hatch.
And soon the moon will come
full circle,
the tides again filling the shallows
with tiny fish.
All in time to feed newly-hatched
chicks.
Although barren herself,
the moon prompts the sexual life
of many animals,
both above and below the surface.
Just after the full moon, the corals of
the Great Barrier Reef begin to spawn.
In a week, the tides will reach
their slackest point.
And over 200 different
species of coral
will launch their seed into
a galaxy of eggs and sperm.
In the still water,
there is time to drift and mix,
time for eggs and sperm
of the same species to mingle
and create a new generation.
Sea worms,
who live imbedded in the coral,
cast off their tails,
adding to the blizzard.
Writhing bags of sex cells,
the castoffs dance among a veritable
Milky Way of new life.
These celebrations are orchestrated
by the music of the spheres,
the distant dance of the solar system.
Like the moon,
the sun also sings to us
in rhythms slower than
the everyday of rise and set.
Around this star journeys the earth
at a stately, year-long pace,
initiating the cycle of the seasons,
ferrying winter and summer
from south to north, and back again.
Even at the poles,
the sun makes her mark
with the shimmering aurora,
the wake of the solar wind.
In the Antarctic,
the cycle of the seasons becomes one
with the rhythms of the day and night.
Here six months of sunlight are followed
by six months of dark and dusk,
summer followed by winter.
Even in the extremes of Antarctica,
life is tenacious.
Throughout the dark
of the polar night,
each male emperor penguin
guards a single precious egg.
Hardly moving, never hunting,
they've not eaten since autumn.
In temperatures reaching 70 below,
winds up to 50 miles an hour,
they huddle together for warmth
and protection, and wait for the sun.
In a land where evening lasts for six
months, dawn can seem to take forever.
Finally the penguin chicks will hatch,
and like their fathers,
they will be desperate for food.
Males can lose nearly half their body
weight during this incubation time.
But help is on the way.
Mother's coming.
For months, they have been feeding
on the bounty of winter seas.
Nature's biological clock is
at work here, too.
The females seem to sense the exact time
to leave for the nesting grounds,
for they have a huge trek
across the ice to get here.
Even tired and hungry, the males
may be slow to give up their chicks.
Temperatures on the ice
can be killing.
Babies left exposed too long will die.
The guard successfully changed,
males are free, at last,
to head to the sea,
and to feed.
The chicks will be fed by mother
and kept warm until the sun
climbs high into the sky.
Ever and always,
the coming of summer
depends on the swing of the earth
as it circles the sun,
and as it reels on its tilted axis.
As the earth spins through the year,
the sun's strongest rays sweep across
the globe, bringing change in its wake.
Near the equator,
the angle of the sun's rays
varies little through the year.
Still, it's enough to give the tropical
regions their own seasonal rhythm,
the cycle of drought and flood,
the wet and the dry.
September in Australia.
The air above the baking northern
plains rises with the heat.
With it comes cloud banks full of
moisture, pulled inland from the coast.
The wheeling clouds bring drama,
but no relief to a thirsty land.
They are not rainmakers,
but sky painters.
The monsoons are still months away.
Even so, deep in their nature,
plants and animals seem
to feel the rains coming.
A new cloud stirs-plant suckers rising
with the rhythms of the spring.
What looks like the bark of a tree
breathes with life,
a frill-necked lizard,
waiting out the drought.
For months it rations energy,
moving little, feeding less.
Wallabies are rainy day lovers.
While they wait for the wet season,
males joust for the chance to mate.
Now even the plants take a chance
that the drought is on the wane,
greening with fresh leaves.
Soon, all their preparations
will be rewarded.
The wet, the season of the rains
is coming at last.
From deep in their shadowy castles,
colonies of termites rouse
to the reveille.
One storm brings another,
a rain of flying termites.
They take to the air by the millions,
in the quest to found new colonies
in rain-softened soil.
And as always, the rhythms of one
life mesh and turn with others.
Wide-eyed possums in the trees,
and bandicoots on the ground below,
end the fasting of the dry months
with a welcome late-night feast.
At the end of their migration,
termites shed their now useless wings.
Many will fail to ever find a mate
and burrow safely underground.
With the coming of daylight, there
will be others to join the feast.
Conservative no more, the
frill-necked lizard becomes a glutton,
storing up protein for
the breeding time to come.
But it may face competition
for the spoils.
Undaunted, the lizard takes his fill,
working alone.
The green ants do it differently,
working together in groups.
Both species tend to the harvest with
a persistence that is single minded.
Little disturbs the teamwork of ants.
They scavenge night and day,
dry or wet.
At the peak of the rainy season,
the storms are now more than
most animals might care to see.
But their only choice
is to wait the cycle out.
Like the rhythm of the tides,
the rolling seasons of wet and dry
shape life for every plant
and animal on this land.
Not one of them can stop the rain,
or light the black of night,
no more than the fish command
the seas to rise and fall.
One creature only dares
to fight the night
the bold and restless dreamer
hunter, builder, man.
But even in our cars and castles,
we submit to the rhythms of the earth.
Dawn and the sun summons us to work.
We swarm like schools of fish
to the cities,
flashing to feed and mingle
on the reef.
Beneath the canopy of urban forests,
we hunt and gather
what we need to live.
And dusk still calls us home again
a flock of birds
returning to the roost.
But over the millennia,
we have learned
how to fight the darkness
with fires of our own design.
We strain against the boundaries,
reshaping the border
between night and day.
We create our own complex orbits,
drawn to the sky
and the distant heavens.
Yet finally,
for all our powers and wisdom
man is still just a player
on a vast stage.
Hour by hour, year by year,
the cosmic clock
marks our time on earth.
Seasons turn.
Tides rise and fall.
One generation passes on to the next.
Nothing lasts forever,
not even the stars themselves.
Night by night,
over countless years,
the earth will slow on its axis.
The moon will drift yet further away.
Days will lengthen,
the tides grow quiet.
Billions of years from now,
the seemingly endless cycles
will come to a close
as the fires of creation at last
consume the sun.
Yet ours is but one small star,
in one tiny galaxy,
in a universe beyond measure.
Perhaps there are other
rhythms of life,
unseen by our eyes,
yet as grand and majestic
as our own.