It was balmy,
a week after the first snow
of the season. Misty, foggy
first thing in the morning,
warm enough for breakfast
on the porch.
Balmy, cloudy all day
but no rain.
grasses revealed their reds
in the moist air
as Maizey and I set out late afternoon
down the west pasture
toward the oil blossom. It hadn’t occurred
to me to go up to the oil blossom
until we were almost there. Ah,
I remembered then,
critical moments when I had been propelled
to the “oil blossom,” (grandfather’s hope)
to stand atop the prairie
above the dilemmas of the moment.
(His: farming, just about every moment.)
Maizey and I climbed over and through
a fence, crossed the dry creek bed
and up the east side of the mesa
that popped up there on the plains.
As so often happens,
the clouds that had covered the sky
all day, now parted just above the horizon
and as we sat on the north edge,
amid large lichen-covered flat stones,
looking past evergreen trees
to a pond below that still has water!
the first sunlight of the day
poured fiery light across the land,
tinging everything orange.
I didn’t spend even one moment
thinking about a pending decision.
There was too much to see—
Maizey and I headed down the hill,
across the creek,
through the scrumptious prairie grass
on our way home
below a sky exploding in outrageous color—
light on the prairie
and this little part of Earth