Fifty-four degrees.
That is what the thermometer read this morning as I ventured out to begin my day, sipping on a piping-hot cup of steaming black coffee. What a welcome respite from the temperatures of late--nearly topping 100 degrees in the heat of the day while never venturing much below 75 at night! Isn't it amazing how quickly discomfort is forgotten in the face of an absolutely sublime morning?
A heavy dew on the grass, a light mist in the pasture, and a quickening in the steps of the Great Pyrenees as they return from their nightly rounds. The light this early in the day is a soft purple-blue, and the rays of the newly dawning sun slice through with pink and peach rays. The yard deer, Seymour, is shedding his summer hair in favor of a thick coat of soft darkness that envelopes his body. The velvet on his antlers is beginning to dry, a sure sign that his annual tree and post rubbing is about to begin. Of course, it is not unfathomable that a wayward leg be mistaken for a good rubbing post.
It has happened before, much to my chagrin.
His apology for such an oversight is a series soft, warm kisses on the forehead, his newly-acquired spires tapping me on the top of my head as he works his way across my eyebrows and down the bridge of my nose. It is his way of keeping me close in his herd, and I appreciate his efforts.
Out in the pasture, the horses awake, sleepily making their way--one by one--from their evening shelter to the troughs brimming with cool, fresh water. Each nods in greeting as he or she passes close by, some stopping for a scratch or a rub while others continue on , intent on being first to quench his thirst. The mares stand guard as the babies drink, then take their own sips. As I rub the side of one of the stragglers, the familiar smell of horse and hay mixes in my nostrils. It is a warm and comforting smell--one I wish I could bottle and keep with me always. The cows, with their sweet, grassy breath, moo a few yards away, anxious for the horses to finish their business and move on. Then, the donkey girls arrive, switching their tails and rotating their antenna-like ears in the direction of the slightest break in the silence.
Lily, a mini horse and year-round yard resident, moves in closer to investigate the goings-on at the fence, while Newman, our gracefully-aging Suffolk sheep blocks my way in a mock train robbery--waiting for me to scratch along his spine. This is a region that has been impossible for him to reach this past year as arthritis has set in, and he licks the air in sheer delight as I make my way from his neck to his hips...and back again. His deep, baritone "BAA!" coaxes me to continue with our arrangement--YOU scratch, I enjoy--for just a couple of moments more. My fingers sink deep into his growing wool, and the lanolin hidden deep within feels soft on my skin.
As the ducks and turkey hen noisily round the corner of the house looking for some leftover morsel of grain, I finish the last sip of coffee in my cup, and it is time to head back in for another. The mist is lifting now, but it will be hours before the dew burns off and the day warms. This is life on the farm, and as I make my way across the yard and up the steps, reaching the door that hides my next cup of liquid contentment, I am thankful for its simplicity.
Fifty-five degrees...
