Quiet Mornings.

Ten o'clock light in the winter is still soft, quietly unobtrusive,
yet she stretches her fingertips out across the table
and tiptoes into the hallway.

Outside, the snow is dusted with
a layer of tiny sparkles; in the yard,
a web of tracks criss-cross from one end to the other.
Our deer friends, our nocturnal visitors, have been busy.
(Just last night around eleven, I walked into the kitchen and gasped
--straight ahead, looking straight back at me, was a lovely doe.)
In the tree are three mourning doves, two of them sitting together
with beaks tucked in behind, trying hard to ignore the cold.
Another flock of birds fly towards the sun, dark wings
a contrast to the pale sky. No wind, just the movement of birds.
Bare trees stand tall and still, frozen.


I sit cross-legged at the kitchen table, a red speckled mug
cooling with the remains of hot chocolate. I savor the chocolate,
but I savor this precious quietness more:
(and, as if on cue with my words, the humming of the refrigerator ceases).
I stop to correct my spelling of refrigerator. The only sound is the click click click
of the keyboard and the voice in my head that narrates the words as they come--
I haven't thought about what they will be, only read them in my head as they appear.
If I could put this morning in a bottle, I would put it in my pocket and save it
for those moments in loud, dirty traffic, or for the anxiety of a hospital room, or maybe just as a gift...

A gift. Indeed, this is a gift. My Creator rested, and all Creation sighs in relief and follows suit.

Amen, amen, amen.