Morning Thanks--Sunday walk on a farm pond

Nothing really to commend the place. A farm pond, little more; wind--loads of it; and just a touch of fall. Some lucky folks, yesterday, hundreds of miles away, stood beside Niagara or looked up or down from the Tetons. Here, just outside of town, it was just me, an azure sky, and few dancing milkweeds around a farm pond.  

Unremitting rains have kept the world emerald, but here and there a few broken yellows suggested the cruelty of passing seasons.

The sun poured down on the open fields of grass, but no one stood still in reverence because wind laid siege to everything. Wind was the whole Sabbath story. 

Sometimes beauty parades before us; we don't need to look to find it, sit in wonder because we simply can't stand. I'll bet the red rocks of New Mexico were stunning yesterday, the woods up north exploding with color. Me?--I spent an hour or so in wind, walking around a farm pond amid wildly dancing prairie grasses doing everything they could simply to stand.

But I'm not complaining, not at all, not with Mary Oliver in my ear.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.* 

Here and there, a milkweed pod, like a Lakota chief, bravely facing the wind. 

And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.** 

Also, Mary Oliver. 

For whom, this morning, I'm thankful. 
___________________________ 
*"Sometimes"
**"To Begin with, the Sweet Grass"