I
hear the Whispers in the Twilight |
|
He often stands
in the corner of the field
Some
say he stands there
Part of a wild horse herd many years ago,
That was then.
Rae Turnbull |
Summer's a grassy sea of ochre yellows and dusty browns in this dry, hot part of our north state. The rains are done, and won't come again till the sun scorched land is cooled by Fall.
Wherever you see a stretch of green, you know that pasture has water to it, from some irrigating well. For unless they're changed by the hand of man, every open field on this valley floor dries up like a critter's sun bleached bone.
But I welcome the sight of those buff colored hills and sage gray brush. It means there's still some space untouched by anything but the natural cycle It's known for years. And it's learned to endure, as all life must, trusting the rains will follow the dust.
Rae Turnbull |
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On July 21st, 2016, George Turnbull left this world for the one of greater beauty that lies beyond.
George
Turnbull Fine Art ©2020 |