I’ll never forget that sunrise—the sky a gentle brushstroke of lavender and gold, mist curling among the temple ruins, and a newborn monkey’s first dawning breath. I had been climbing a quiet mountain path above the Angkor Wat forest, camera in hand, hoping only to capture ruins glowing in the early light. Instead, I found her.
She lay trembling in her mother’s arms, her tiny chest rising and falling softly, matching the rhythm of the forest waking. It was her very first sunrise, seen with newborn wonder. I felt something stir deep inside me—like watching your child’s first glimpse of day, when the world feels brand new and every color is bright with possibility.
Her mother lifted her slowly, cradling her like a precious relic from another age. The newborn’s eyes blinked, adjusting, curiosity shimmering. She blinked again, acceptingly, and seemed to whisper: “It’s beautiful.” I felt tears that were not mine, but born of the same awe.
Up here, history lives in stones, ancient and patient. But that newborn held a promise: the wild living on, even when humankind crowds the edges. I thought of people in New York, Texas, Oregon—busy lives, commuting, chores—but all of us share that magnetic heart-grip when we see something new and alive in the wild. That feeling—that’s why we keep sharing stories.
Later, I watched as the troop gathered, guiding the newborn with gentle nudges. Her feet touched moss, leaves, ancient bricks. She squeaked a tiny protest and the whole troop paused—welcoming her. I felt honored to witness that. A miracle, truly.
As the sun climbed, warmth spread through the forest, golden rays illuminating temple rooftops and her golden eyes. I left that mountain at first light, my heart heavy in the best way—filled with her new life, the quiet triumph of birth, of nature continuing its song.
I’m glad to share it with you.