Witness of Morning

I love these spring mornings that come just before the heat of summer: a low, soft mist hanging above the pasture in the flats beside the creek, drifting ever so slowly in the slight push of breeze before the sun clears the trees on the eastern ridge. I like the cool feel of night’s lingering before that surrendering to the dawn. The stillness of the leaves and limbs on the locust tree behind the house feels like God’s good speaking into my soul and spirit, calming me, quieting me. I like the way slow steps toward the barn leave a dark trail in the grass, thin strokes darkening the silvery dew that show the way of someone’s passing.

I like the slight strokes of color in the sky, the pink tinges that touch the edges of thin clouds holding near the southern horizon. I love seeing the showing of coming sunrise in the changing hues of the eastern view and how it seeps into day. I like the way colors deepen softly in the shadows and how the dew lasts all morning in the shade.

I like the soft smells of grass and trees, the way a scent can seem to hang in the air in one spot and be lost the minute you turn away. I like the feel of the air against my skin, how it freshens the sense of defining the space that I call “self.” I like how the sound of my own footsteps disappears in the calls of blackbirds and doves.

I like the quiet beginnings of these good days and the way they bring me to give thanks and worship my Creator, to adore the Maker more than the things that are made. I love the witness of morning, ancient as earth and fresh as the promise of heaven.

H. Arnett
5/17/13

Cool Risings

A few cows move through the mist of morning
in the pasture beyond the highway.
Heavy dew has formed on the thick grass,
leaving a dull silvery look.

The cows weave dark trails in their passing,
a tracing of paths made where they
have wandered on their way
to some particular patch of forage.

A light gray hangs in the air
between the ground and the top of the trees,
dimming the shape of Randolph Creek,
softening the edges of the bluffs and the woods.

More mist hangs amidst the hills beyond them,
a few layers shouldered above bare fields
and yet more distant hills,
somehow both rising and settling

among branches freshening with green
on this morning that seems to speak
of both summer and spring,
a glistening dawn of gentle contradictions
spawned by the heat of day and the cool of darkness.

We are born to all seasons,
finding reason for hope and gladness
in the rest of night
and in the light of following morning.

H. Arnett
5/16/13

A Change in the Night

Even on someone as dense as me,
the irony of yesterday’s ninety-six degrees is not lost;
two days ago, we had frost.

As I waited during the current construction
on Highway 36 near Troy,
I felt the wind toying with the car,
watched bits of plastic whipped along,
sliding toward Iowa.

The day of high breeze and temperatures
sapped the surface moisture
from the newly seeded section of lawn
but is was useless to try watering
in that.

In the night, though,
the wind passed on,
leaving this quiet dawn of still branches
and gentle sky,
the first bit of color coming
softly through the leaves of the trees
and whispering peace
upon the beginning of this good day.

H. Arnett
5/15/13

Different Views

After my latest lesson in the fine art of equestrianism, (translation: how to not fall off of a moving horse), I decided that I’d take my wife over to Mueller’s for a late supper. Since my riding lessons and the little restaurant are both in Atchison, it seemed a rather convenient arrangement.

We sat on the deck, enjoying our drinks and watching the muddy Missouri roll along underneath the three bridges that connect Kansas and Missouri at this particular point. The nearest bridge, and lowest, is the old railroad bridge, a gridwork of heavily rusted steel and iron braced by limestone pillars and set just above the five-hundred-year flood line. The middle one, both in elevation and proximity to the others, is the old highway bridge. With chunks of asphalt missing from the honeycomb metal flooring, it is–in both appearance and driving feel–the most disconcerting bridge across which I’ve ever driven. Every traverse made me wonder if that particular moment might be the one at which the rest of the structure might decide to join all of those sacrificial chunks of pavement that had already plunged into the river below. The tallest and broadest of the bridges is the one still not quite completed.

We watched for a while as a man worked sixty feet above the floor of the bridge, moving about in the lift basket. From our distance, we could not tell exactly what he was doing, but Randa was convinced that he had the best vantage point in the vicinity.

“That would be fun,” she declared as I chewed another deep fried onion. My wife has no fear of heights, a fact most firmly revealed in 2001 when we obliged ourselves to a parasailing adventure six hundred feet above the bay at South Padre Island. “You know what kind of view he has up there?” she queried. “Well, yes,” I responded, “You could see Saint Joseph and Kansas City from up there.” I said this with some awareness that there might be a bit of exaggeration but I thought it good to acknowledge her point emphatically.

We couldn’t see either of the other cities from our seat on the wooden deck, but we could see families strolling along the river, some walking their dogs. We could see the ripples of water surging southward and the birches and cottonwoods in early leaf on the opposite bank. And, as the last bit of sunstreak faded from the western sky hidden behind us, we could see soft streaks of pink brushing the eastern clouds beyond the river.

While we ought to always keep in mind and seek that higher perspective of greater distance and discernment, we should not overlook the wonder that is around us. Especially when it comes with onion rings.

H. Arnett
5/14/13

Lord’s Day Afternoon

There are certainly other things that I could be doing,
and perhaps a couple of “shoulds,”
but this is the choice that I have chosen:

A gentle breeze shuffles the still-forming leaves
on the Crimson King maple we planted in December of ‘Eleven.
I paid premium (even at half-price)
to get a twenty-foot-tall tree,
but ninety degrees in March of the following spring
tricked the tree into believing that winter was over.
The freeze that followed killed the upper third
of its budding branches.

Such are the chances taken
when the temporary lies of temperature
tempt us into thinking we can escape the season.

Now today, after frost
on the second Sunday morning of May,
we set our lounge chairs on the low deck
that spreads around the older maple,
sipping cold drinks and soaking up the sun
that slips through frittering leaves,
happily caught in the nether
between warm glare and gentle breeze.

Even in this world
of killing cold and burning heat,
there are such moments of quiet and peace
for those who seek them
with sufficient determination.

H. Arnett
5/13/13

The Finer Points of Law

The Missouri Highway Patrol has this amazing courtesy information program. For only ten dollars, one of their many friendly patrolmen will arrange a personal conversation with you, no matter how urgent your trip or time frame. They will take time out from their very busy day in order to bring you up to speed, so to speak, on some of the finer points of Missouri traffic law.

Say for instance that there is a light mist in the air and you, being an ignorant lowlife scum-sucking Out-of-State humanoid are under the mistaken impression that your daytime running lights, visible from the next county on a misty day, fulfill the intent of the Missouri lights and wipers law. This law states that whenever weather conditions require the use of wipers, “lighted lamps” must be in use. Oh so sorry, not those lighted lamps, no indeed.

Again, for only ten dollars, Officer Joe Johnston, or some other equally friendly representative of the MHP will pull you over, delay your travels without additional charge and provide you with this important information: you, sir, are breaking the laws of the state of Missouri and we don’t abide such from riffraff passing through these parts.

Officer Johnston, or other MHP member of similar grace and charm, will also, for no extra charge, verify that your insurance and registration are proper and current. In addition to that, and this will just curl your toenails with extreme gratitude, Officer Johnston will also request that the Invisible Person with Radio Receiver and Transmitter will check to see if there are any outstanding warrants on you or Other Person Who Has the Same Name.

You may be quite surprised, as indeed I truly was, to discover that “you” do indeed have such warrants. Should you discover that someone else, who has the same name as you do, has indeed run afoul of the law, in whatever slight or serious manner, you will be especially grateful to learn this: said foul villain does NOT have the same Social Security Number as you. Now, if by the strangest stroke of grievous injustice it turns out that this person DOES have the same SSN as you do… well, that story isn’t going to end quite so soon or sweetly. Non-extraditable warrant or not.

I am glad that when I stand before the One True and Great Judge, I won’t have to worry about what stupid things some other poor fool has done. In fact, thanks to the grace of the God Whose Son Died for Me, even the stupid things this fool has done will be covered.

And, by the way, just in case Harold W. Arnett of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, is reading: get your vehicle properly registered, dude. Today!

H. Arnett
5/9/13

Finishing Touches

Two months ago,
as I loped her around the small paddock
in her first bit of a workout since November,
our grey roan Foxtrotter mare
seemed more than ready
for another season of trails
and training grandkids to groom and ride.

But the bit of bleeding from Jitterbug’s nose
shifted from faint pink ooze to red trickle,
the puffy places around her sternum
grew larger and became too sensitive to cinch,
some sort of ugly growth made her ears
too sore to touch
and most lately, she began to show
some slight stiffness in her hindquarters.

After Monday’s sunset,
I tried to lead her around the pasture,
one last walk together in the deep flush
of brome and bluegrass,
but after the first few steps,
J-Bug turned back toward the barn.

Her eyes spoke of pain
and she held her head at an odd angle,
shaking it from time to time
as if trying to clear some deep angst.

The news from the vet yesterday morning
was no better than we expected.

I held her halter as he probed for the vein,
easing the needle back and forth
until the red ran up and out,
then he joined syringe to needle
and flushed the sedative.

She started to walk a circle
but her legs splayed, wobbled a bit.
She paused for a moment, head beginning to droop.
She looked off toward the field, confused,
and then went down on her side.

She tried for a few seconds to raise herself,
back leg stuck awkwardly into the air,
head held up from the ground.
I rubbed between her eyes and around her ears
as Randa gently petted her neck.
And when her head lay against the grass
and Lady J’s eyes no longer carried the seeing,
we walked away slowly.

I hope that when it comes the time of my going,
there will be those
who love me more than they fear my leaving
and will let me go gently–
a few kind strokes of love to send me along–
and will join me later
in our waiting for That Good Day.

H. Arnett
5/8/13