Country

The morning is misty across the newly planted fields, the air cool and refreshing.  It may be an extra five minutes of driving but more than half of it is through these country roads.  I find new ways to go home some days, just to get more of it, home, delicious, home.

I love to walk out on the back step in the morning with the dogs and my coffee, the smells and the dew on the grass, the trees waving happily, healthy in the steady breeze of this place.  No wonder the neighbor has a windmill.  Often I smell horse, but I love that smell.

I am awake for a long time listening to the rain falling outside the windows.  I hear nothing else, no loud music, no arguing drunks, no sirens, just birds and rain and sometimes cars driving by.

We walk to the horse barn on the corner, and I smell this familiar smell from childhood, it is this bitter smell of ? Oats? That puffy headed grass that is not wheat, nor timothy, vetch, something, I don’t know.  But as it enters my nose, I feel warm and happy.  The cars are fast on the road, but the dog romps in the ditch, and barks at the horses.

And the horses, come over to the fence, it is electric so we all keep our distance.  I blow in their direction and the black horse flares its nostrils, and the piebald spotty brown Dalmatian looking one, shyly stands behind, and the pinto snuffles the black one, this is my friend here.  I wave good bye as we walk back home.

It feels good, finally, to leave the city.

It feels good, finally, to be home.

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