Misty Mornings

In the summer time I always try to wake up early to finish the chores before the heat of the day sets in.  This season the beauty of the early mornings has drawn me outside into the pearly air and dew-drenched grass.  Mists have crept out of the forest and settled in the low places between the black cherry trees.  Every thing seems to have gone quiet,  and even the sound of the roosters greeting the day seems hushed. 

I always move the chicken coops first,  although they are housing the turkeys now.  It’s a beautiful place by a pile of large lime rocks that were dug from the earth long ago when it was a plowed field, growing corn and tobacco.  Now the early golden sunlight streams in long shining hanks through the oak and cherry trees,  illuminating the careful weaving of the spiders,  all strung with beads of dew through the grass and bare branches. 

I like to try to draw up that peacefulness into my heart,  holding it there for the rushed days,  the time spent in traffic,  the hard times. 

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