Eventide

Sunrise

The day is slowly fading toward dusk. Birds fly in pairs across the pale sky, calling goodnight as they go. From the topmost branch of a slender maple, the cardinal sings his evening song. At the farm, the guinea hens yawp at the setting sun from the roof of their henhouse. The horizon is pure, melted gold.

The small breeze that ruffled my hair and flipped the pages of my book this afternoon has become a mere whisper among the grasses. But, late this afternoon it fanned a smoldering pile of logs behind one of the barns into a crackling fire that threatened to burn the remaining small wood that separates my cottage from several neighbors. I heard the snap of burning wood and smelled the acrid smoke. I ran to call the fire department which came, sirens screaming, a scant five minutes later. There was no great damage done, but for a few minutes my heart beat fast at the thought of what might have been.

Dawn and dusk are my favorite times of day. The air is most often still and at this time of year smells like moist earth and green, growing things. The same hush that begins the day falls again at eventide; body and spirit rest in the silence and soft light.

Sunset