The magic colors of morning. Pastels paint with wide strokes, the mountaintops in sunlit pink, the valley fog a grey soft sigh, the fresh snow a blistering cold purple hue, hints of baby blue in the east.
The Canada geese tuck beak under wing.
The frosting on cedars.
The squeak of snow underfoot.
Black cows shuffle through powdered snow snuffling their frozen breath skyward. Cattle pulled toward the magnet of the hay trailer, lined out across the fields. Summer’s work is loaded and ready to be shared.
Jarring thuds as flakes of hay tumble from hayracks and tractors rumblerumblerumble.
Whitetails fluttering, the rapid metronome of fleeing tails.
Sagebrush bends low from the weight, trees stand defeated, accepting, branches bend down waiting for the sun’s spring warmth to lift them up again.
Steam lifts off the creek, fading as the sun continues to rise.
Hillside layers of seven minute whiteness alternate with red and grey.
Finally, the glow is gone and shadows stretch towards the west. Sunshine. So ends the peaceful painting of a pastel world.
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