Pitched

This is the way, I remember it now. There is the farm, there's the house, here we are. We crossed the sea in black of night and by the time we arrived, dawn was creeping across the island and into the fields.

There's a silence about the country. It makes your nerves unwind, but it makes me restless. A calm that does me no good. Before we had closed our eyes, the roosters were up. A thin mist crept along the grass, the homestead seemed perched, waiting for mad things to come, preparing by keeping still. We closed the tent, my wide eyes staring into the blue nothingness an inch away. She slept in an instant.

Morning without night before is a most delicious occurrence. When the world lies quietly waiting for your next step, when it belongs to no one but you who are awake to see it. We must savor those moments; we own so little, once proper morning returns anew.