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 preciselyan.
And invaluable skill
when hurtling through the treetops 80 feet above the ground.
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.
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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 220,000 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.
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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 align
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
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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 sum
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.
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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.