Now what you have to imagine, you city slickers, is waking up to the moonlight pouring in through your undraped wall of windows, filtered through the morning mist on the pasture. The grass is emerald from the recent rains, and the horses, barely visible, slowly come into view. The moon is speckled, large and grossly misshapen, I have never seen it this way. It is the kind of morning that compels you to wake up and witness.
I throw on some warm clothes and head into town. First stop, the Bovine Bakery, my morning mecca. Now this is the place, and the hour, to meet men. In the time it took me to park, cogitate on the choices, and purchase a pain d’amond, three different, unaccompanied and attractive men come by for their own dose of coffee and confection. Elapsed time – 2 minutes max. I think I need an additional New Year’s strategy of hanging out there and striking up some conversations. Perhaps I should actually wash my face next time.
I turn down 3th street and hover at the intersection with C. A covey of quail poke around the wet grass at the side of an old barn. I spy a path I hadn’t noticed. Out of the mist emerges a woman with a British accent and two dogs, one of them pretty mean looking and, luckily, leashed. She tells me the path goes down to the wetlands and is free to explore. The dogs startle the little quail and off they go.
By the time I am home, the moon has lifted itself out of the mist and into the clear blue. Still misshapen, not an illusion. As I approach my front door the horses are in a playful mood and run to meet me. First two, then four – they speed after each other, brushing against my fence and galloping through the pasture, kicking up the soft earth in their wake. A lump on the deck catches my eye and I go to inspect. It is a dead hawk. How did this happen? Did it fly into the glass barn door? I am sad that I may have contributed to its death. Perhaps curtains are needed after all.
