At Rest

I used to complain (if only to myself) about the barren looking land in the winters here in Nebraska.
How, after harvest, there was nothing left to look at.

No snow capped mountains covered in pine trees.
Not here.

Just skeletons.
In one form or another.

But then I remembered how hard the land worked all spring, summer and fall.
How it stood up to the demands of modern farming and technology and gave
it's all and then some.
How it lived and worked, with the farmer, and again while the farmer slept.
How only because it lives, do we live.
And more importantly how it deserves the winters rest.
How it needs the winters rest.

And I became humbled and reverent.

Sleep Mother Earth.
Tucked under your blanket of snow.
Sleep long, sleep well.