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.