Fog on the Pasture

I miss early mornings in the summer.

The ones where you walk up to the barn and the grass is still so wet with dew that the tips of your shoes are soaked through by the time you reach the door. The kind where the breaking sunlight has yet to crack the denseness of fog, and creates an unintentional blanket of calmness. Everything is simple on mornings like this, nothing is complicated, nothing is hurried.

You can stand at the door of the barn with your coffee in your hand and survey the kingdom of Heaven on Earth all around you without one tense muscle in your body, or worry on your forehead. You are complete, and at rights with your world, right then, in that moment. Nothing can flap the peace permeating your concious thought.

I miss the snort of horses, coats damp with dew, walking up through the fog, their heads bobbing, ears forward as you shake a bucket of food. Echoes off the trees and a lone crow making his own morning noise blend into a picture of stillness, even though time continues to move, and all around you, life awakens.

Perhaps the stillness is not in the moment, but of the time capsule created from the memory.

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