Of the Farmer's Land

Dusk, the gentle side of sunshine, settled soft upon the folded sails. The fresh stars were twinkling on the smooth river surface. And the gentle sound of herons passing, stepping silent in the reeds, looking out across the sparkling of light on the sea... ...and the clink of metal striking wooden beams, creating feelings of past and present days, old ways of skipjack and dredge and rakes. Ducks are swimming, necking, dipping bills and tails and feathers moving, rustling in a pleasant breeze. The wind is alive here. Of tomorrow, things will, frankly, remain the same. The sun will rise and glow and set on the landscape, the richest fields of wheat, blowing soft and resting gentle against the river and the sea. A distant dog will bark at the return of master, a man of river and the land, a farmer. And children's laughter, their shadow against the fertile land, their tiny hand enclosed in rough and calloused palm, time now to go home. And walking along, bare feet stepping on an oyster shell road, grasses tender on the roadside spread their seeds and see them to the sea. And the herons graze on minnow, thoughtfully. They ignore the passing of dogwood petals and tuft of reeds. Time ceases. Time breathes.