Prattle

Life is a wonderous thing, and often in the vast speed of living, we forget the small things: sunsets, butterflies, fog drifting over the fields at sunrise, the gentle thrum of frogs calling for rain.
I sit on my step, listening to the night fall, recognizing that nothing in this world is more important than this moment. The ding of the cowbell as they graze, soft snorting of the horses as they head out into the pasture for the night. It is the very essence of my soul, feet rooted in the warmness of the earth that is my home.
Home a continuous lineage of those that came before us, bearing the loneliness, marking this the place they would live and die for.  Ancient laughter still harbors on the hill where they played, loved and bore those generations before, making us who we are today.
I wonder if they sat on the step, at night, listening to the cow bells, musing at how spectacular the night sky is above? Were they too busy to stop and breath in this beauty? These ancestors surely must have been awed by the depth and breadth of this country.  They surely took the time for beautiful things, to have planted roses so closely to the house so that they fragrance would waft through hot summer nights on warm breezes.
And so, I reluctantly come inside, to curl up on the bed, by the open window. Its curtains blow, bringing with it the gentle sounds of the night outside.  It comforts me.  I am home.


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