Seeing Wider and Higher

It was supposed to be cold and rainy this morning. Instead it was bright and crisp. Just after breakfast, Ed and I walked the Netflix® movie out to the mailbox, taking a roundabout tour of the farm via the trails that he has cut around the perimeter of each field.

Usually when we walk the trails I keep my eyes cast down, constantly searching for four-leaf clovers, elusive arrowheads, wildflowers, turkey nests, sink holes, snakes, or other natural curiosities that catch my eye. Today, my focus was upwards, toward the heavens. The morningtide sky was opalescent blue with the faintest almost-full moon still showing. It was cross-streaked with jet contrails (Jack's friend, Karl, gave me that word to use) that looked like a large kiss painted by some supernatural artist.

The leaves on the trees were just starting to change or to flitter down to the ground, exposing the walnuts, hickories, mock oranges and dark branches arching upwards. 

The red-tailed hawk who hangs around the farm was alternately perched on its favorite phone pole and then seen soaring over the fields looking for a reason to swoop down. 

Even the giant sunflowers, drooping and dried as they are, demanded that I look up from below and see them in their faded glory. 

Seems like all the action this morning was taking place sky high. I need to remind myself to look up -- to see wider and higher than the path in front of me.