I love these spring mornings that come just before the heat of summer: a low, soft mist hanging above the pasture in the flats beside the creek, drifting ever so slowly in the slight push of breeze before the sun clears the trees on the eastern ridge. I like the cool feel of night’s lingering before that surrendering to the dawn. The stillness of the leaves and limbs on the locust tree behind the house feels like God’s good speaking into my soul and spirit, calming me, quieting me. I like the way slow steps toward the barn leave a dark trail in the grass, thin strokes darkening the silvery dew that show the way of someone’s passing.
I like the slight strokes of color in the sky, the pink tinges that touch the edges of thin clouds holding near the southern horizon. I love seeing the showing of coming sunrise in the changing hues of the eastern view and how it seeps into day. I like the way colors deepen softly in the shadows and how the dew lasts all morning in the shade.
I like the soft smells of grass and trees, the way a scent can seem to hang in the air in one spot and be lost the minute you turn away. I like the feel of the air against my skin, how it freshens the sense of defining the space that I call “self.” I like how the sound of my own footsteps disappears in the calls of blackbirds and doves.
I like the quiet beginnings of these good days and the way they bring me to give thanks and worship my Creator, to adore the Maker more than the things that are made. I love the witness of morning, ancient as earth and fresh as the promise of heaven.