Sunday Morning At Dad's

It's cold out. The leaves are brown and the cornfields are bare. Crows pick at the remains of the corn. The hair of the horses is thick.

Inside the house, the woodstove burns, filling the house with the smell of a fire, and the kind of warm that seeps into your bones. I just woke up. Still sleepy, I have padded into the living room and curled up into a ball on the couch. Dad is cooking breakfast. Biscuits, gravy, and eggs. The tv is already on, and the familiar trumpet sounds of the opening of Sunday Morning announce the day.

It is a comforting time my mind keeps.

SpiritOfTheRabbit SpiritOfTheRabbit
36-40, F
Mar 10, 2010