But for now, my sweatshirt still feels good, a barrier against the dampness that clings and chills. The words aren’t etymologically related, but I think the mist adds mystery to the world as it mutes noises to a muffled whisper.
But not all noises. Farmer Neighbor’s rooster is -abruptly- awake.
Maybe I’ll count his proclamations this morning, just for a while, to give credit where credit is due. This barnyard fowl has a knack for exuberantly greeting the day. But, no. I stop counting at nine in about as many minutes because the counting is even more distracting than the crowing.
The farm is waking up.
The cows were milked hours ago, but now the barnyard pauses for its daily interlude of stillness while the family gathers in the big farm kitchen for a cooked breakfast, always eggs, before the older children prepare for school. I hear their voices as three miniature adults climb over the gate and hurry along the field lane in matching shirt and dresses, forest green today, carrying their noon meal in sturdy Coleman coolers, the same ones they used last year. (No superhero lunch boxes on Hickory Lane, but Little Joe might have a hero, someone he looks up to and admires for what he does, someone who is his role model for life...he calls him "Da.")
The rooster continues to crow intermittently. Boisterously. Gates rattle, and someone leads the driving horse and her colt to the pasture. I hope I never forget that colt, running through the misty pasture like the memory of a left-behind dream that I want to go back and finish. His mom is more cautious of the barely visible terrain, and she paces nervously along the fence while he makes another loop then collapses for a nap.
I’d rather hear the rustle-fluster of a flock of pure white pigeons erupting off the corn crib roof,
The sun is persistent, rising higher, burning wild and beautiful behind the mist, the meadow tree.
It won’t be long now.
But for this hour, as it waits for glory, it is glorious.
As are the Morning Glories, rightly named, of course, because they too flourish, bright and radiant in the morning light. But upon closer examination, I find they seem, also, to contain glory. Each flower glows from within as if a tiny light illumines the richly colored corolla.
Apparently, they are designed in such a way as to capture the sun’s glory and fling it out for their brief and blazing lives.
Only a day to shimmer and shine.
paused a bit too long beside the fence.
Tell me what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, from “The Summer Day”