The changing light on the fields below our home creates an almost limitless variety of moods. I look out to see the golden light of the morning sun and everything is yellow and bright. On other days an ethereal morning mist diffuses light and the air feels as though it holds me close. Peace is almost tangible, maybe because I cannot see too far. Sometimes dark and sinister clouds encroach on unsuspecting fields. Corn stands proud and tall not guessing torrential winds will soon bombard their tenuous hold on life.

The noonday sunlight fades and washes out the color. Strange, it seems as though the opposite should happen. When evening finally comes, amber light again bathes the fields and creates growing shadows so opposite of morning. Illumination diminishes in calculated steps until the only light I see is from the stars. The fields are black: in appearance only, not reality. They are as green as they ever were. Only the light has changed.

In the darkness it’s difficult to remember the warmth and life force brought here by the sun. Maybe sleep will once again bring light around to succor me with healing rays.