Feb 23, 2010

Every morning at my house, there's a slim window of quiet. It may occur at 5:34, it may happen at 7:48. It's a pristine time for me-I can hear the birds chirping outside from the branches of the big black jacks in the yard. I can hear the baby calves bawling, announcing that their hunger has yet to be satiated....little farts are gluttons, they can never get enough it seems. The first pale yellow rays of sun have begun to kiss the windows on the east side of our house, they turn the old blinds a warm amber color as they strengthen with the rising of the sun. Our themometer mounted to the frosty glass of the window on the porch reads 22 degrees, and the cold temperature is further supported by the array of ice crystals that have formed in the mud all around. Intricate patterns of them glitter like jewels in the premature sunlight, adorning the track of a foot print from a gloriously dirty mud boot.

Birds always seem to announce the arrival of spring...mocking birds and red winged black birds especially. Red winged black birds were always plentiful at my parent's place growing up, the memory of being a young girl laying in my bed in the early morning hours listening to their cries is never far from my mind. I'll never forget listening to their calls as I made my way to our little barn, making my way down the little dirt road. Every child should have times they can sit and think, put their bare toes in the mud and just ponder their existence. Sitting in the damp grass, my bare feet in the dirt, I decided many things growing up. Things that I liked. Things I didn't like. As I look back, I'm thankful for a raising that gave me an appreciation for quiet times and birds in the mornings, no matter what time that quiet comes.

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