It's funny how the feeling goes, those days and nights of things so bland and normal. The grass it grows, or it stops and takes a rest. The trees that have shook their branches and rid themselves of leaves, right down to the bare limbs, that are not so bare, but covered each year with tougher skin, and constantly feeling the new growth prying at the outer self.
The green-green trees, that cause for shade and comfort, that find themselves all covered in needles waiting for that toast of Spring.
Standing in the barn on a windy, cold, darkened sky morning, with a little heat coming from the stove, and the rain, oh the rain, sounding like the marching of a hundred thousand men, as each daily noise of birds or cattle calls, are wiped clean from the hearing, and the only thing left is the rain.
When the weather calms, the wind winds the fan, atop the high windmill, and for the millionth time the blades cut the air like fresh grown grass and the bass thump of the turning, turns your soul.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Big Cabin, Oklahoma
Comments