As the sun slips closer to the western horizon and a soft gold filters across the hay field in front of the house
The busy chatter of songbirds drifts across the yard from the woods behind the house, weaving melody around the rustle-music of wind-tossed leaves
From somewhere behind me, a cow bellows; a crow replies
The gray kitten twists herself around and around my legs, passive petting, her purr outsizing her tiny body
And sitting here on the porch swing, it is almost possible for me to imagine that all is right in the world
I can almost imagine, for the briefest moment, that no one is hurting, no one is broken, no one is dying
Like suffering itself has been forced to pause, to inhale, to catch its breath
And in this small quiet moment
There is rest
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