How rare it seems on an August day
to see such a cool breeze
rippling through the leaves of the trees,
moving across the grass
as if summer were already past
and long chill nights were upon us.
How good it seems to sit
and feel the fading sun warm on my back
as we gather around the table
for popcorn and coffee
and the light laughter of family close and ready.
How comforting it seems as evening draws near,
to halter the horses in the north pasture,
heads bowed and manes blowing
as they follow across the curling ryegrass
in the sifted shade of the locust tree,
beneath the bleached birch
and across the fescue-ed terrace
that rolls down toward the round pen.
In the ending of this good day,
we do the things that need doing
give thanks for the need and the doing
in this place of peace and presence,
where something as simple as a cool August evening
could lift callused hands to worship.