Sunrise at the homestead. The best time of day.
I walk out on the back porch, as I do every day. I am a daybreak riser. My two bulldogs are not. I get no acknowledgment. Nary a lifted head.
I reckon some are just not morning people — or morning dogs, as it were.
I like to pause for a minute, even if it is just a minute. A lot of years went by since I could appreciate this. No man-made noise. A turkey gobbles on the next ridge. On a really good day, I can hear two more respond to his challenge.
I can’t stay long. Miles to travel. Things to get done. Bills to be paid.
Sunset at the homestead. The best time of day.
I walk to the back porch. The bulldogs show their better nature. The oldest moans like a broken-hearted man. The other just smiles. They know intuitively that they are going to get a jaunt down to the creek or get fed. It is a win-win, either way.
This has been a long time coming. Dark soon. No man-made noise. A coyote howls on the next ridge. On a really good night, I can hear two more respond to the challenge.
As I write this, it occurs to me that it is the space in between these two times that kill a man. They call it “stress” today. In the olden times they just called it “livin’.”
A friend recently asked me if I had a “bucket list.” I said I didn’t. She looked at me as if I had shot her horse right out from under her.
Well why not for goodness sake?
Just don’t. Never given it that much thought.
I think, though, that I may change my mind.
I think I would like to see the best time of day as many times as I can.