The break of morning

The morning air is cold, frost covers the grass, save for the footprints Cheyenne has left behind as she's torn across the land, sprinting, circling, pausing to look back at me. I delight in the crunch of her feet running through the fallen Sycamore leaves; the sound is one of my favorites. The sun rises across the river and peeks through the trees, about to take the grey blue of the dawn into the gold of morning. So many birds chirp and call, pop and twitter, coo and caw. A formation of Geese travels overhead, high above the hawk sitting on a Live Oak branch surveying the land beneath. The big river moves slow and deep, cold and quiet, swirls of steam rising here and there. As I breathe in this scene, I remember. Nothing is permanent. Everything is in movement; nothing remains the same save the constants of faith and love. I realize that peace takes work, and I am humbled by the beauty before me, and ashamed that I've thought the gift of my burdens to be handicaps that hold me down rather than challenges to move me forward. I am tapped on the heart and told I do not walk alone.