a good read:)
Originally posted on Metaphor:
If you stare long enough at that space between the trees – there, where the row of dry junipers leads the eye down to the field of baby’s breath – you begin to see water. It’s a lake, perhaps a sea, lying peaceful and cool, and not a field at all. You can hope that no one comes to cut it, plow it, leave it fallow for winter. That’s what she sees from the window each morning, when she rises and stands alone in the house.
The sun is just up, strikes the potting shed with its white window boxes, and shines on the hollow bones of the swing set rusting in the yard. There is a mourning dove on the crossarm of the power pole, cooing to himself. This was always her favorite time of day. So calming to stand by the window, looking down at the wet grass. The dog sniffs from bush to bush along the fence. She does not see the dog but watches the dove, as countless short and tiny lives wake to the daylight all around.