Easter weekend, 2012.
A robin perches high in the maple, her red breast exposed by spindly spring branches. She trills hopefully for awhile, then swoops off for better prospects. A lone Canadian goose honks loudly in landing midst the flock spread wide on the pasture. Other whistles and tweets and calls join into the song of praise as the sun sinks slowly, the treetops backlit as lace on a lamp. The mourning dove sings the final refrain, her gracious coos sailing from the silo, through the hedgerow, across the hayfield.
The wind has died down; the fire blazes a steady comfort. The stones of the firepit warm through the soles of my shoes to cozy my bare toes. My face tingles and flushes but I only lean in closer, absorbing more from the embers. I am alone with my thoughts but I am not lonely. I am thankful for the quiet.
This is that precious space and peaceful place, awake to dream. The horizon is wide and I am hopeful.
Anything seems possible.