Sunday Morning

Quiet. Sunday mornings are quiet in the country during the between times. Between putting up the last crop of hay and the harvest. Everyone slows down, probably sitting at the kitchen table enjoying one more cup of coffee. Maybe some pancakes and bacon, surely taking for granted the peace around them. I know I usually do.

It's about as beautiful as a morning can get. The fields shrouded in wisps of light, airy fog. I see a flock of birds emerging from the grayness swooping into the field, hundreds of them disappearing into the corn. No sound, a silent descent to breakfast.

This is a quiet time. No planting to be done, too soon to harvest; sound is limited to chirruping crickets, the occasional caw of a crow, a lowing call from a cow that needs to be milked. 


I take my life for granted all too often. I focus on what's wrong, on what needs doing, all the while ignoring what is around me. Every now and again I notice. I can't say why I periodically look around and realize. I do notice that I realize more often. Perhaps it's the strange, ugly events that have sprung up around us that have caused me to come to ground in a way I was not accustomed. Perhaps when there is so much ugliness manifesting itself I feel a stronger urge toward what is quiet and beautiful.


What I do know is, the fog takes on a different grace, the flight of birds brings a sense of delight and the crickets bring me back in years to when I was a girl with no more worries than what I would do today. 


I am going to take pleasure in the day before me. I think that's going to be my only goal for the day. May you have the same.