The Quiet Time

The new moon has set.

Mystic has chosen a spot in the lee of the pepper tree to lie down. He keeps his head held high like a ghostly silver king holding court on a grassy dais and watches as I walk the gravel drive down toward the barn. He is considering whether to stand and walk to the fence to see if I have brought him another apple. We share the night, him resting, dreaming of pursuit, me pursuing a dream without rest.

The wind is a whisper and the air warm. From the highway a mile away I hear the steady drone of a car headed south. A dog barks down the farm lot road and I think of Widget wiggling his wiry way through the cattle fence and following his nose into trouble. I stop and look up at the stars strewn across the sky like pearl dust and diamonds. The rhythm of the night is the beating of my heart and the soft snap of the electric fence.

I turn and head back before Mystic is tempted to rise. 

I know peace.