Saturday, April 19, 2014

Yesterdays weather pattern brought us the much looked for early morning fogs. Those friendly obstructions to visibility filling the woods and hollows, creeping out into the open spaces, finger of which make the familiar softer and slightly strange, as if ones position on earth has shifted.

While the soft fog was arguing mildly with the rising sun and lifting and shifting, I was happily creating noise in the confined area of my garage, preparing the mower for the first serious effort to halt the rise of the dreaded grasses,

Whipping out the drive, headed for the public areas first off, I  drove my machine of mass execution northward at a slow pace enjoying the caress of the misty fogs and saw, on the Renters fence line two buzzards in the still leafless Sycamore tree.

Stretching and shaking off the nights moisture, preening the chest feathers straight. Shaking and stretching more, the closer I approached, never frightened, concerned only stwith their readying for their day.

I made two rounds of my chosen area and started the third when the mists had lifted far enough to thin to invisibility when the buzzards dropped from their eighty foot sanctuary,  struggled for altitude, locked their wings and glided quietly from view as I finished my third turn, putting my back to their flight.

The quiet of the morning, and its freshness, remained with me most of the day.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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