The Song on the Breeze...

 First things first. I'm cheating just a smidge on this post. It's Sunday. My day to be home. Not to take a drive. Here is where my serenity lies. 

So I'm on my porch in my ole rocking chair, watching and listening. To the rustling of the trees as the wind gently sways their branches. The goats are bleating because that's what goats do. and birds are calling. The roosters are crowing and the ducks are pleading with me to set them free. The air is damp and chilly. As it can be this time or year. It stirs wonder and awakens my soul. I take a sip of my Sunday coffee, blissfully strong and a little bit bitter, with just a hint of something softer. Sunday coffee tastes better than Monday coffee. Relaxed and blissful. The wheat in the field still green but tall and starting to head. It dances in the breeze, majestic and choreographed. It creates its own rustling sound, the music of my forefathers with their Turkey Red Hard Winter wheat. Hardy and resilient. Just like the souls of the mennonites who brought it Kansas. It is my family's heritage, softly moving in the breeze to the rhythm of the wind, the motions of the dance, captivating and awe-inspiring. I hear the birds creating their own songs and mixing their harmonies. The peace and stillness laced with life and song. The barnswallows are back. Swooping and careening and singing and sailing. They are forging their future and finding their nests. Who will inherit the nests of the past, who will relentlessly attempt to build on my porch, only to have their hard work torn down again and again? 

Sunday Vibes

Today is the day

the coffee tastes best,

    strong and black,

    hot and steamy.

    Only a small hint of bitterness... 

I pause to wonder, 

is there a deeper metaphor here, 

the depths of my soul,

finally learning to give warmth,

still holding a hint of bitterness?

What do I hear on the breeze, 

and see in the air? 

Are they gulls of some kind? 

They crash my party 

With both majesty and mayhem

stirring up chaos 

and grandeur.

Mixing their melody with the harmony

of a killdeer or two

calling out,

the song of a songbird too.

What is that warble? 

A robin? A whipperwill? 

A call of a pheasant joins in the song

all playing on top of rhythm 

provided by the wind.

Barnswallow swooping, 

gracefully,

in tandem,

like an olympic champ.

They careen and they call

and look perfectly in sync

with the world of my farm.

Wind on the trees, 

wind in the wheat,

in my too tall grass that cries to be mowed.

Theres a chill in the air

carried across the breeze

calling beware

a reminder that Springtime in Kansas

can mean chaotic weather.

My slice of heaven

time with my creator

sporting a safety yellow hoodie

my favorite one of all time.

My coffee cooling quickly,

reminding me of Dad

(because he, like God, is everywhere)

and his magical ability to

 not only drink lukewarm coffee

but still enjoy it thoroughly.

Not a skill I've yet acquired. 

I'll refresh my cup and ponder some more. 

The sound of roosters

calling to... who? 

I'm not sure. 

Maybe their hens, 

maybe to me,

maybe to prove

their voice is strong.

The wheat acoss the road

waves to me

beckons me

invites me to play. 

And old piece of farm equipment 

planted in the field 

like a prop for a photo shoot.

I'll oblige you there.

I sip my black coffee

and ponder my Sunday. 

Not shaping up as I'd planned,

mother nature herself,

the sudden, spontaneous, changer of plans.

I now hear the chime that makes me smile

my windchimes I love, mix with

a new voice on the wind.

I'm not sure who, but adding its melody

to the background music. 

The band's all here,

the instruments are vocalizing,

harmonizing as

a kitty comes trotting

across the yard

her prize in her mouth...

and the circle of life

keeps going round

to the harmonious sounds.

I sit in my rocker and rock to the rhythm

and sip my bliss and 

gather new songs 

and give thanks. 

to my creator. 

-Carrie Horn

4-26-26