Peace
There is a peace here that is as quiet as the snow that comes stealthy in the night without warning.
There is a peace here with the urgent bark of the fox calling for a mate in February; the steps of the deer as they go toward a bedding place; the deep low voice of the great horned owl as he drifts silently across the pasture with eye peeled for rodents amongst the tall golden grass.
A quiet that bubbles up from inside with the sight of the last shadows on the back hill; the silhouette of the chaulk trunks of the white oaks against the dark woods; the sound of the forest sighing as the night gently...slowly covers the land.
The night is alive with soft voices and cries. The bobcats call like a scream.
There is a sustenance here. A fire gently fluttering on the grate; a slow cooked meal in the pan; the clock in the hall with a steady tick.
Quiet, yet alive more than any contrived event or venue.
Eyes wide open, ears yearning to hear, a soul needing to be filled.
Sometimes when I walk with Toby back up the hill, I catch my breath at the beauty. The house sitting in the evening light, white against the green. The hens contently marching to their house; A thin trail of wood smoke from the chimney top. The smell of hickory smoke finding its way to my nose; The sound, at times when I am so blessed to have Sam home-of music of fiddle and mandolin erupting like a sonnet from the house, interspersed by male voices and hearty laughs. Joy Oh Joy!
Then peach coloured haze along the treeline as the day slips away and the navy blue night arrives with starry lights and crescent moon.
I breath in the majesty and I am grateful.
There is a peace here with the urgent bark of the fox calling for a mate in February; the steps of the deer as they go toward a bedding place; the deep low voice of the great horned owl as he drifts silently across the pasture with eye peeled for rodents amongst the tall golden grass.
A quiet that bubbles up from inside with the sight of the last shadows on the back hill; the silhouette of the chaulk trunks of the white oaks against the dark woods; the sound of the forest sighing as the night gently...slowly covers the land.
The night is alive with soft voices and cries. The bobcats call like a scream.
There is a sustenance here. A fire gently fluttering on the grate; a slow cooked meal in the pan; the clock in the hall with a steady tick.
Quiet, yet alive more than any contrived event or venue.
Eyes wide open, ears yearning to hear, a soul needing to be filled.
Sometimes when I walk with Toby back up the hill, I catch my breath at the beauty. The house sitting in the evening light, white against the green. The hens contently marching to their house; A thin trail of wood smoke from the chimney top. The smell of hickory smoke finding its way to my nose; The sound, at times when I am so blessed to have Sam home-of music of fiddle and mandolin erupting like a sonnet from the house, interspersed by male voices and hearty laughs. Joy Oh Joy!
Then peach coloured haze along the treeline as the day slips away and the navy blue night arrives with starry lights and crescent moon.
I breath in the majesty and I am grateful.
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