Some mornings sneak up on you like a cat on a sunbeam. You step outside expecting the usual farm chaos—someone stuck in a fence, someone else yelling about being “starving” despite having eaten thirty seconds ago—and instead, you’re met with quiet. Not the unsettling kind, but the kind that drapes over your shoulders like an old quilt, warm and familiar, and makes you stop mid-step without meaning to.
It was that kind of morning—cool, misty, brushed with that soft early light that makes everything look like a memory you haven’t had yet. The pond lay still, a sheet of glass without a ripple, and along its edge stood the whole goat herd—spread out, unhurried, peaceful. Like they knew.
Nine goats, each doing their own thing yet somehow part of the same slow dance: two tucked under the pines nibbling bark like it was the breakfast special; one perched on a stump, queen of her tiny kingdom; the rest with noses buried in grass, tails flicking in a lazy rhythm. No bickering. No hollering. Just the whisper of grazing and the occasional contented grunt.
And in the pond? Their reflections—perfect little mirror images painted on the water—until one kid wandered too close and sent a ripple through the whole picture. But for that one brief, held-breath moment, it was magic. The kind of scene you’d find in a dusty old children’s book—The Morning the Goats Stood Still.
And there was Gabriel, our old reliable Great Pyrenees, planted at the edge like the world’s fluffiest marble statue. Just watching. Not barking. Just. . . being. I don’t know if it’s instinct, love, or some ancient guardian spirit that lives in dogs like him, but he takes his post seriously. Sitting there between the goats and the pond, he looked like he was guarding something sacred. And maybe he was.
There’s a particular hush to mornings like this. Not true silence—there’s still the hum of insects and the sigh of the breeze—but a hush that reaches past your ears and settles somewhere behind your ribs. It makes you forget the to-do list, the muddy chores, the bad knee, and whatever tangle of thoughts you woke up with. You just stand in it, breathing it in like medicine.
I’ve had a lot of mornings on this farm—loud ones, muddy ones, ridiculous ones where a goat ended up on the roof or let herself into the kitchen. But every now and then, a morning like this tiptoes in and reminds me why we stay. Why we traded sidewalks for uneven pasture and vacations for vet bills. Why we live this life with all its ridiculous, beautiful mess.
Because sometimes the pond is still. Sometimes the goats behave. Sometimes your old dog sits like a sentry at the edge of the world. And sometimes—just sometimes—you get to see your whole life reflected in the water, clear as truth.
And you remember: this is home.
1 comment:
What beautiful Lawn Mowers you have.
This is a wonderful picture.
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