The stillness of this morning
has filled the spaces between the hills
with a light mist.
The ridge beyond the ridge
barely shows in its darker tinge
against the fringe of smooth slate
that waits for the breaking of day
to show the seams of soybeans
running in long rows across the slope.
Brown to the middle joints,
stalks of corn hold the last bits of green
toward their tops,
heavy ears drop toward the earth,
signs of harvest already beginning
to strip the fields along the Wolf River bottoms.
The last cuttings of hay
bend their way along the runs
of brome and fescue
and whatever else will pass for grass
when livestock strike their hooves
against frozen ground,
waiting for the sound of food.
But for now,
I will bow my head
in the fine stillness of this quiet morning,
and bless the One who has made it,
leave the wiltings of winter
for their own times.