The dark begins to fade gray
and the world looks like my bathroom after a shower.
The fog has come on little cat feet.
It sits on silent haunches and looks over the field.
In the spirit of God in the Yard, I pour a cup of coffee in my Michigan mug
(I know it should be tea)
and take Gracee’s red and blue Dora blanket to the porch.
I settle in a rocker.
Except for the constant churn of highway traffic.
The noise of life.
Even the birds are hushed.
I think by not thinking.
I move by not moving.
I walk as I sit.
There are changes coming.
I see it dimly in the split-colored tree in front of me
and in the leafless tree next to it
the two bookmarked by towering evergreens.
I feel it as I inhale the damp
and sense Spirit hover
and I am at peace.
I whisper one word.
The fog begins to stretch and yawn dawn.
It backs up over the field
and the tree line becomes clear in the distance.
A single bird sings the first note of the day
and morning explodes
and I see
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on. ~Carl Sandburg
Linking with One Shot Wednesday, though I’m unsure about it today.
Also seeing with Ann Voskamp at Holy Experience later today.