Nanowrimo - 4

It is morning in the heartland. From the black of night, a night that seemed at moments impenetrable and thick with a coldness no heart could warm a night streaked with the cries of souls lost, comes the faint pink glow of dawn. Every time the sun finds us we are new, undetectably different. Every time it would seem to rise, we are merely turning towards its light.

Crows flutter over the fields, carrying off the last darkness upon their wings. Out the window the east, over the scrabble of last summer’s vegetable garden and the coop where chickens crow their morning complaints, the pink disk steps shyly over the horizon.

In the air is less bight and more promise of the days and weeks of planting and blooming that come ahead. It’s this leanest of seasons that fills our hearts with the most hope. Pregnant with the promise of a new day ahead, it is morning and the heartland gently wakes up.