Words are merely the vehicle on which thoughts ride;
and when the vehicle creaks too loudly in the wheels
it distracts attention from the cargo.
James Rudolf Adams
The kitchen is dark, she stumbles into the room. Instinctively, she is drawn to the big window that looks over the farm. There is a slip of the moon in the dark sky. A bright star that has a name that escapes her, sits beside. The bright star moves slightly. She rushes to grab those binoculars sitting on the counter. It cannot be a star, the shape is too strange, is what she is thinking. It has to be the space station. Oh, she wants to believe this. Are those people manning the space station looking down and watching her? It is impossible, but she thinks it. She does not really know. Her eyes are still full of sleep, her mind still hanging on to the dreams of the night.
The brilliant light slides down from the moon’s surface and dances upon the icy ground. The smoke, from a smoldering wood stove below where she stands with her toes curled, dances and laughs at this girl not quite awake. She tries to see the moon, the star or possibly the space station through the smoke that floats and dances and she smiles as it drifts. With her camera always at hand, she opens up the window. A cold air rushes in curling her toes, even more, making her shiver. She tries to capture the moment, the dream that is escaping.
The morning ritual of coffee making, sitting and writing down dreams begins.
She takes her place at the table, her computer roars to life. Her mind wanders and her eyes become distracted by the beauty that keeps changing outside the big window. She has no hope of capturing the words or the beauty. She watches the moonlight fade and that space station turns back into a faded star with the name that escapes her. It was only her imagination in the morning haze.
The moonlight stops dancing on the icy surface, where her footprints from the day before are frozen in time. She gets up and once again opens up that window. The cold air rushes in and curls her toes. She captures the moment which will change again. The aroma of the coffee brewing makes her smile. Closing the window she sits back down to see if the words come.
She wonders where the time goes. She must hurry there are chores that need to be done. There is no time for “Dilly-dallying” as her Grandma used to say.
Joining Theresa today at Good Fences Thanks Theresa.