Just a little something that I wrote about this same time last year.

Crow Morning

I heard the crows calling from the treetops
They talked and bickered
The cacophony of their morning meeting filling the air.

The moon rode low in the west
Fleeing the approach of day.

The dark bare trees encrusted with ice
Glittered in the half light
As the morning mist blanketed my little valley

I know that I have chores to do
Places to go...

But how nice it is to stand here
Feel the dampness on my skin
Look across the field to where the deer foraged
For acorns in the night
And let the peace of it soak into my soul.

How could I not?
.

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