The foxtrotter sees me step from the house
with bucket in hand;
she whinnies from the fence
in the dark shadow of the treeline
spilled from the edge of the pasture.
The spruce looms dark
in the early dawn,
rising sixty feet above the yard.
All that is low shows black
against the brightening sky.
High clouds streaked with pink
spread in light pattern,
wisps kissed with reflected color.
Thin-leafed branches of elm
etch black lace
against the smooth silk of the morning sky,
sun’s fire burns low
at the edge of the red-rimmed ridge,
shifting and fading into the blue
above pastel strokes.
It seems wrong to call something “chore”
that calls me into such as this.
I dump the feed into the trough,
turn my face to the east,
absorb this day’s dawning.
There are prayers
spoken through open eyes,
praises given through lifted hearts,
appreciation of creation
expressed in adoration
of Him who has made all things.