This morning, I woke to a soft glow rising over the chicken coop - another day at Lonewolf, this place of unending beauty. The sun soon revealed a world covered in hoarfrost, a sight I never tire of seeing. I remain in awe of this immeasurable wonder.
As the morning opened further, the chickadees sang among the branches, and, as they sang, the hoarfrost quietly let go. I stepped outside to witness it, to feel it on my skin as it silently drifted down...
After returning to the kitchen, I opened a book of poems to William Stafford's, "One Home." And now, I've fallen in love all over again with my life and his words...
Mine was a Midwest home—you can keep your world.
Plain black hats rode the thoughts that made our code.
We sang hymns in the house; the roof was near God.
The light bulb that hung in the pantry made a wan light,
but we could read by it the names of preserves—
outside, the buffalo grass, and the wind in the night.
A wildcat sprang at Grandpa on the Fourth of July
when he was cutting plum bushes for fuel,
before Indians pulled the West over the edge of the sky.
To anyone who looked at us we said, “My friend”;
liking the cut of a thought, we could say “Hello.”
(But plain black hats rode the thoughts that made our code.)
The sun was over our town; it was like a blade.
Kicking cottonwood leaves we ran toward storms.
Wherever we looked the land would hold us up.
~ William Stafford
My images from this morning