Morning Chores Turned Communion

We trudged through the snow as if it were a morning chore at first.
On our long list of honey-dos.
Bearing the weight of a brisk February wind on our faces.
Whipping them into strawberry moon pies.
Tiny foot pockets of deer feet and onion sprigs announcing themselves as we walked through.
The valley holding us real careful,
walking warm broth in big cold bowl.
All sloshing together in this unsuspecting soup.
The geese honking out their morning song.
A golden-footed Carolina Dog.
Wobbly round-bellied birds prancing on tiny feet.
And wool-footed, sleepy-eyed me.
Gathering fallen limbs from the snowbed in crunchy coat arms to feed the hungry winter stove.
‘Til we float back through all misty-eyed and warmed-in with the holler.
Our morning chores turned communion.
Our bodies vibrate out like birdsong, captured in the measuring cup mixing of this day.

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