We should write, you said, of beauty and nature. What we see when we step outside so we will know each other’s surroundings. The mountain is to the east with almost as tall hills connected to the left and right. On perfect mornings the sun peeks over the mountain and shines brilliantly. The smoky fog retreats to the broad creek that tapers and lies at their feet. A great white beast with large cat ears and a long fluffy tail walks among the trees by the creek and in to the field. If a neighbor see’s it, they say nothing to me. I see birds swooping through the air. The sun blazing behind dark clouds. Trees bare in the winter. Exposed is all their strength. Tall grass turned in to burrows for the large country rabbit to sleep.
Lone, old, coyote, dejected and down, retracing his weary steps. Deer on that path are aware. Raccoons ever present, eating persimmons high in the sky. Invisible is the wind, moving dead leaves in a rhythmic pattern.
Bees move about in a daze, as winter receives several strange warm days. Lightning streaks the night in all its brilliant work. Days and a night the rain will pour. After the storm, the groundhog comes out from below, stands on his hind legs and smells the air. A slight sound and he quickly retreats.
The soil sits waiting to be dug up or to proudly display its sleeping bulbs. Brown leaves not mulched, lay scattered about. Dark days make me want to weep. But, that is when I listen for the birds to sing, as I walk to the mailbox anticipating your letter.
