The Mists of Morning

The heavy shower that came late last evening
followed by the cooling of the night
has left a light mist hanging above the pasture this morning,
a soft gray forming that leaves the trees blue
on the ridge bordering the bluff beyond the creek.

Early light leaks into the edges,
lifting the thin ledge of shadow,
shaping the morning’s early shift.

At the sound of the door opening,
the horse lifts his head from the grass,
ears tilted forward,
waiting to see whether or not I head toward the fence.

I wish I knew the subtlest clues
that lets him know what it is
that I’m going to do
almost before I have made up my own mind.

I smile, shake my head at that small wonder
and turn toward the stone and pebble path
that leads to the drenched deck
underneath the maple tree,
drooping heavy leaves
just above the hummingbird feeder.

This is a perfect morning
for sitting in a dry chair,
remembering last night’s conversations,
sipping steaming coffee
and contemplating the long slant of sunbeams
slipping between the tall elms in the fencerow,
bright shafts of revelation cutting through
the thin myths of this world’s momentary illusions.

H. Arnett

About Doc Arnett

Native of southwestern Kentucky currently living in Ark City, Kansas, with my wife of twenty-nine years, Randa. We have, between us, eight children and twenty-eight grandkids. We enjoy singing, worship, remodeling and travel.
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