Pricked ears in the pasture,

Indian and double-stuffed Oreo, wander among the grasses,

chomping off bits,

now whinnying to unseen friends.

A slight breeze causes the yellowing wheat to whisper to the grass.

Evening deepens,

painting the bellies of clouds in the west- orange and purple.

The early morning clatter of bird song is hushed,

settling with the occasional scrape of branches in the thick, green lilac bushes.

The white on the horses stands contrast to the deepening blue hue,

changing rabbits from grey to brown,

their muscle-sculpted hind legs rounding to accommodate large feet.

A hushed hum from the yard light keeps the silent tractor company.

I belong here, like nowhere else,

listening to the breathing of God,

witness to what seems secret,

lush,

whole.

Do the clouds enjoy the paintbrush of the sunset?

Do the horses sense the end of the depth of day?

Do the rabbits keep the wheat company in the whisper of night?

Are the birds tucking in their babies with a bedtime story?