We've taken some days away. Some days to be still and quiet.
Right now I'm looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of this beautiful house that overlooks Barkley Lake.
The lake, still and glassy, holds onto a fathomless, deep olive green while it manages to reflect the soft, blurry blue of the sky. A thousand tiny shards of mirrors shimmer when a breeze skits across its surface.
A fat, furry groundhog scuttles across unfamiliar terrain, clearly uncomfortable. He's comical in his bunching, awkward travels. He's surprised himself by being where he is, it seems, and he's nervous and tense, unhappy to be exposed. Unhappy to be away from his home.
A flock of geese try to take over the yard. They strut territorially, obnoxiously announcing their arrival with throaty honks, daring a homeowner who doesn't want to deal with their droppings to confront them.
A majestic bald eagle, not fully grown, swoops through the humid air, cutting and dipping, finally landing in the tall trees. He holds himself still and silent, as if expecting the reverence and honor due him as king.
Turtles strain their necks to pop their heads above the surface of the green water. Though they seem to be bobbing along on a course, they're actually paddling frantically underneath with prehistoric, webbed feet, moldy green, both tough and tender.
A whole host of hidden birds call out to each other, communicating with trills and cries, a Morse code of warbles and hymns. Gray squirrels chase each other from limb to limb, weaving through branches that were abbreviated in the ice storm.
The trees stand with a new vulnerability, bearing the scars of the winter's icy grip. It looks as if dinosaurs have roamed through, chewing hunks out of the tops and sides of ancient oaks, hickories, dogwoods. Some are totem poles now, bleak and bare, pointing upward, unwilling to give up.
White cumulus clouds thicken the sky. The air hangs heavily, weighted with humidity and heat. But, once in a while a breath tickles through, blowing a hint of comfort, altering the clouds' piled formations.
Now and again a boat courses across the water, reminding me there are other people out there. But on the whole, I'm a solitary observer, seeing through my eyes, my self hidden away, safe from any judgments or claims.
My soul feels comforted by the sweet song of nature. Its spell conjures a healing balm for my spirits. It's a quiet, restoring symphony of discoveries.
Bless the Creator for such a gift.
Right now I'm looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of this beautiful house that overlooks Barkley Lake.
The lake, still and glassy, holds onto a fathomless, deep olive green while it manages to reflect the soft, blurry blue of the sky. A thousand tiny shards of mirrors shimmer when a breeze skits across its surface.
A fat, furry groundhog scuttles across unfamiliar terrain, clearly uncomfortable. He's comical in his bunching, awkward travels. He's surprised himself by being where he is, it seems, and he's nervous and tense, unhappy to be exposed. Unhappy to be away from his home.
A flock of geese try to take over the yard. They strut territorially, obnoxiously announcing their arrival with throaty honks, daring a homeowner who doesn't want to deal with their droppings to confront them.
A majestic bald eagle, not fully grown, swoops through the humid air, cutting and dipping, finally landing in the tall trees. He holds himself still and silent, as if expecting the reverence and honor due him as king.
Turtles strain their necks to pop their heads above the surface of the green water. Though they seem to be bobbing along on a course, they're actually paddling frantically underneath with prehistoric, webbed feet, moldy green, both tough and tender.
A whole host of hidden birds call out to each other, communicating with trills and cries, a Morse code of warbles and hymns. Gray squirrels chase each other from limb to limb, weaving through branches that were abbreviated in the ice storm.
The trees stand with a new vulnerability, bearing the scars of the winter's icy grip. It looks as if dinosaurs have roamed through, chewing hunks out of the tops and sides of ancient oaks, hickories, dogwoods. Some are totem poles now, bleak and bare, pointing upward, unwilling to give up.
White cumulus clouds thicken the sky. The air hangs heavily, weighted with humidity and heat. But, once in a while a breath tickles through, blowing a hint of comfort, altering the clouds' piled formations.
Now and again a boat courses across the water, reminding me there are other people out there. But on the whole, I'm a solitary observer, seeing through my eyes, my self hidden away, safe from any judgments or claims.
My soul feels comforted by the sweet song of nature. Its spell conjures a healing balm for my spirits. It's a quiet, restoring symphony of discoveries.
Bless the Creator for such a gift.
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