Morning calls but we are oblivious to the rising of the sun until small bellies crawl towards their plates.

Before long droplets of sweat bead consistently around our brows as the temperature moves closer to the almost unbearable mid day. In the relative cool of the early morning legs pump cylindrically as we hurtle down gravel pathways.

 I watch as her hair blows in the wind and his eyes shine as the speed requires extra pull on the handlebars.

Wheels give way under sliding gravel and we stop to recover. I am in awe of these bodies. All of them, growing browner, stronger and freer as our souls have space to explore and ponder.

Ripe fields of wheat which loosely waved short days ago, now succumb to the motorised scythe and we watch day after day as the landscape is cut in glorious patterns of yellow. Soon the neigbouring fields of green will erupt with sunflowers and we wait somewhat impatiently for the display.
Deer tread gently on the edges of the woods at dusk we're told. This raucous crowd is yet to see one but is that any wonder given the speed these children of ours move at. The quiet comes only when young heads are tucked in books. If not electronic there would be oceans of them, slowly drowning the free space about us. Instead it is their imaginations afloat, full of fancy, mystery and delight as sleuths uncover the truth and animals have voice. What a gift it is to love the written word. That mere marks on a page could weave a world in their minds brings me great joy.

There are other worlds here that unfold. Worlds where this daughter of mine experiments with reigning surpreme. She has nutured, taking over where mother nature fell short.
Her gentle hands have cradled these gangly bodies of too big wings and beaks surrounded by down and tiny pin feathers. With such tender care and love invested in the starving trio, the river of tears was long and wide when the nearby feline stole her prize.
All I could do was hold her and it hurt this mama's heart too. With divine display, just one day later three new baby beaks appeared, high in the rock wall of our courtyard, this time still tended by their mother bird, allowing us the joy again without the weight of attempting the care.

This is the ebb and flow of life in this quiet place. We are lead beside the figurative pools of still water and we are finding restoration. It is well.