morning

500B5786-D43B-4E08-942E-53EB14B2F229Sunrise slips under the covers and whispers me awake. New day. New mercy. The hens are gleaning and preening, per their usual morning routine. They’re quiet until they catch me in their line of sight. Then it’s all the chatter of a hen house as I sip hot coffee.

Some folks read the newspaper; I check the nesting boxes. I spot a pretty pink egg that stands out among the others. I hold it up and marvel, still, over porcelain pastels. It’s always fresh. Always new.

It’s been 3 days since I’ve picked the garden and I’m bracing myself. It’s like a fussy girl who changes her outfit a dozen times. Or like walking into a room that rearranges every few days. “Weren’t you just wearing…that? Weren’t you just over…there?” It’s constant growth. Change. Surprise. I’ve known it all since conception but am always caught off guard. It’s like I forget with each slumber. It’s like that with many things. Now I’m thinking of Ann’s “soul amnesia” and wondering if I’d forget my own face if I wasn’t made to deal with it each day.

I drown out road noise and pretend I’m not in the center of town. Pretend I have nowhere to go. Pretend I can just be for a moment, and not do. The cats are hung over tables, steps, coop. They are the very best I’ve found at just being. No rush. Only thing harried is their coat, and they’re grooming now, as well. There’s cut grass on my toes and I’m leaving a trail. I may want to trace my steps later when I feel a little lost. But all prints point to home. I’m real glad for that.

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