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is where the heart is and some other inportant parts.

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     My morning cup of coffee is whispering, “Can you come out and play.”  Porch-chair cradled and mud stuck between dark and day, my wife and I are divining inspiration through the aroma of beans. We’re hiding in the shadow of dawn. She enjoys the trees dressed in their finery of dew and early light. I enjoy her smile and the trees, I’m multi-tasking. This could be the best day of my life. When the sun peeks over that hill we’ll run for cover.  

       Our home was built in a time of Civil War. Thick stone walls set deep into a hillside, half-hidden, half-forgotten, close to the bottom of a wooded hollow. For a century, farmers brought their trade to a watermill that stood here, a little past our work shed. Then our house was used as the workmen’s quarters.  If I dig a hole to plant a bush I’ll find a piece of rusted horse harness, tool, or bottle; mementos of past labor, lives spent. The small town mills are gone, but there’s always work to do. My bride is the new crew-boss, I’m crew.   

    Through tall pines we can just hear the stream, falling over rocks worn smooth. Fish, crawdads, and every kid’s daydream live there. Under the old stone bridge a big brown trout has claimed his ground. The clear spring-fed waters paint years in the nuance of moments, with a master’s palate. A big storm will change the creek into an angry river, demanding respect from strong and weak alike. 

     Big Blue, the heron, is in the stream keeping the trout honest with his Buddhist calm. He was here years before us. Sometimes while walking between the leaves we surprise Big Blue. Out of nowhere, he jumps up, in your face, with his big dog bark, looking like a pterodactyl. That’s when I call 911-Jesus. Hallelujah!!!

     Butterflies are running around finding everything worth finding.  Ms. Ground Hog and her babies are waddling through the grass looking for breakfast.

     An army of moles have declared total war throughout our lawn and gardens. Fearless and unstoppable their units are advancing on all fronts and the destruction mounts daily. After speaking to the local wise men, and considering all options, I have retreated to the porch for my last stand.        

     Our three chickens, my antagonist, are staring at me. They are conspiring. Not one egg has blessed my plate. On the porch rail, they stand defiant, as if carved in stone, crapping on the aesthetically weathered split wood. Seeing my life reflected in their beady eyes, I confess to my love “I’m feeling very Appalachian.”  Her laugher stabs my heart. Forsaken, betrayed, I’ll be buried under the chicken coop.

    A red tailed hawk’s bone piercing shrill fills the hollow. Nesting in the arms of a sulking white oak tree, she challenges a world far outside our two acre spread. This hollow, its surrounding banquet of farm fields, meadows, and much more, are in her command.    

    Upstream, like an ocean wave, acres of honeysuckle cover everything in its path. The honey scent is like a river flowing through the woods. This evening we’ll have an arm full of blossoms on the bureau.

   Hundreds of tiger lilies are taking notes and sending memos. The Fearless Flying Squirrel Brothers are trying out a new routine. Dragon flies, like jewels in a tempest, are out patrolling in force, and will take no prisoners.  I think I’ll get more coffee now, before the hummingbirds attack.

   Next to the house we have a hammock built for two, hanging under an old black walnut tree. It’s a nice place to spend some quality time in the evening. We get reacquainted.  I have the “move” to keep our hammock swinging; leg bent, rocking my knee back and forth, with the right timing. My wife, Terese says she can’t do it. She has more letters behind her name then a cup of alphabet soup and can’t do that “move”. College makes people sneaky; she has me doing all the work while she lies there with her head on my arm smelling nice… In the interest of the greater good, I am going to allow her to get away with this sham until the day I die.      

In an hour, we’ll pick some blackberries. After that, I will be mentally and physically prepared to take a nap. Terese might beat me to it. Looks like another best day ever.

                            

Author's Note

I would like any and all constructive criticism or unwarranted praise. Feels like I could expand on some elements to create a better flow. Is the 911-Jesus line out of line.