Morning
I step out slowly into the cool morning air, my breath condensing there before my eyes in a little puff of white. It is swept away by the light wind that blows now from the north and west. Always from the north and west. As I make my way down the drive I pause and take a drag of that hand rolled smoke I have come to be so fond of on winter mornings such as this.
Slowly inhale. Slowly out.
Smooth and calm I make my way the last couple of steps down the drive, my boot heels clicking on the black top. The slowest of cadences, keeping time for no guitar, no gypsy songman, no one but my self and all those little thoughts that are so lovely dancing in my head on winter mornings such as this. As I make my way down that quiet stretch of American blacktop, all lined with mailboxes and little brick 2 and 3 bedroom houses with medium-size family sedans and pickups in the driveways and little children - 2 and 3 years old - all sleeping in the early hours while moms cook breakfasts and dads read papers that the young man threw onto their doorsteps or else maybe into the bushes only hours earlier, just before the sun began to peek its head up above that distant line that is the horizon and up over the tops of all those oaks and pecans that call this land their home, I smile and enjoy the little bit of solitude that I have come to relish on these my winter mornings.
As I reach the sign at the end of the road - STOP! it cries in fire engine red - I swing a slow right and walk on down along the ditch, my boot heels crunching softly over leaves of gold and orange and yellow and a multitude of browns. I take another drag of that smoke....all warm and sweet inside. And inhale another breath of winter air....all cool and crisp there in the depths of my chest. And walk on down that road. After about five minutes of this slow and steady walk that carries me down into that roadside ditch and back out and across that empty blacktop and over those dotted yellow lines and into the fields that stretch on and on up and up into the hills all dotted with reds and golds and yellows and oranges, I come to that place where I can sit and look out on all of this and just smile.
By this time, the sun has shown itself fully, still small and pale when one thinks of all that fury of only a few months prior. Now, over the tops of all those trees that seem to have stole a bit of its arrogant buring color, the sun sits and waits. This is not its time. This is the time of that wind from the north and west, and with it comes the cold and ice that greets a man every morning as he steps out into this his world and smiles. This is the time when all those Canada honkers fly low in that great big V and announce to the residents of the southern parts of this country that they have arrived in all their grand style. This is the time when, if a man listens close enough, he can hear all those sounds from far far away - a soft rustle of cat tails from the pond down the way, the cows in the fields over the next rise. Sounds that never would reach a man in all that shimmering heat of summer now ring out clear in the heavy cold.
And from up above me, I hear that distinctive chirp chirp of that red bird that only shows his face around these parts once summer has gone and moved south and the winds have carried him down into the oak thickets that call this land their home. And all around me the Robins and the Jays and all the other winter visiters that I enjoy begin to make their songs and souls heard loud and clear across this expanse of cold winter morning. I sit here underneath the biggest oak tree I can find and smile and breathe in and out and listen close and live and die and sing with joy. All in a morning. I am alive.
Slowly inhale. Slowly out.
Smooth and calm I make my way the last couple of steps down the drive, my boot heels clicking on the black top. The slowest of cadences, keeping time for no guitar, no gypsy songman, no one but my self and all those little thoughts that are so lovely dancing in my head on winter mornings such as this. As I make my way down that quiet stretch of American blacktop, all lined with mailboxes and little brick 2 and 3 bedroom houses with medium-size family sedans and pickups in the driveways and little children - 2 and 3 years old - all sleeping in the early hours while moms cook breakfasts and dads read papers that the young man threw onto their doorsteps or else maybe into the bushes only hours earlier, just before the sun began to peek its head up above that distant line that is the horizon and up over the tops of all those oaks and pecans that call this land their home, I smile and enjoy the little bit of solitude that I have come to relish on these my winter mornings.
As I reach the sign at the end of the road - STOP! it cries in fire engine red - I swing a slow right and walk on down along the ditch, my boot heels crunching softly over leaves of gold and orange and yellow and a multitude of browns. I take another drag of that smoke....all warm and sweet inside. And inhale another breath of winter air....all cool and crisp there in the depths of my chest. And walk on down that road. After about five minutes of this slow and steady walk that carries me down into that roadside ditch and back out and across that empty blacktop and over those dotted yellow lines and into the fields that stretch on and on up and up into the hills all dotted with reds and golds and yellows and oranges, I come to that place where I can sit and look out on all of this and just smile.
By this time, the sun has shown itself fully, still small and pale when one thinks of all that fury of only a few months prior. Now, over the tops of all those trees that seem to have stole a bit of its arrogant buring color, the sun sits and waits. This is not its time. This is the time of that wind from the north and west, and with it comes the cold and ice that greets a man every morning as he steps out into this his world and smiles. This is the time when all those Canada honkers fly low in that great big V and announce to the residents of the southern parts of this country that they have arrived in all their grand style. This is the time when, if a man listens close enough, he can hear all those sounds from far far away - a soft rustle of cat tails from the pond down the way, the cows in the fields over the next rise. Sounds that never would reach a man in all that shimmering heat of summer now ring out clear in the heavy cold.
And from up above me, I hear that distinctive chirp chirp of that red bird that only shows his face around these parts once summer has gone and moved south and the winds have carried him down into the oak thickets that call this land their home. And all around me the Robins and the Jays and all the other winter visiters that I enjoy begin to make their songs and souls heard loud and clear across this expanse of cold winter morning. I sit here underneath the biggest oak tree I can find and smile and breathe in and out and listen close and live and die and sing with joy. All in a morning. I am alive.
posted by Joshua Skrobarczyk at 7:55 PM
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