Easter · Quiet Morning

Autumn light came thin and gold over Mount Mee. The kind of morning that asks for less noise.

Spike sat first by the feed bay. Suzy sat second, already matching his hush. Quiet morning, said Spike. Easter week the farm way — soft steps, soft eye, no rush.

The chooks murmured instead of fussing. Pavlova still thought she owned the dusk-edge of the yard, but even she went hush when Suzy looked. Sheep wool-warm. Goats paused. Quails counted themselves small and stayed.

Canberra started a slow line that was more walk than muster. London queued without pretending not to hear — she heard, and she waited anyway. Harare grazed without chasing. Beijing waited, then one clean step to shade.

Little Thunder stood at the rails, calm mahogany, orange poll quiet in the cool air. No stump speech. No shove. Apples later, Spike whispered. Thunder blinked as if he agreed.

Moscow would not budge from the manger edge of the trough — which was fine, because today nobody was shoving for turns. Paris would not be hurried; she finished her mouthful like a prayer for grass. Denver held the high cool. Nairobi picked the quiet side. Manila watched from the other side of the fence, part of the circle.

Suzy walked the gate and did not open it for drama. She opened it for a gentle move to fresh water. Spike escorted the edges so Tokyo would not turn quiet into a zigzag.

Some mornings are for running, said Spike. Some mornings are for keeping the hush you already have.

They told the kids listening: Easter on this farm is not eggs in a race. It is a quiet paddock, a settled herd, and dogs who know when stillness is the job.

Put the quiet in your Farm Keeper folder, Suzy said. When autumn comes again, you will know this light.

Spike shook nothing off — there was no dust-storm of hurry. Suzy stayed by the gateway a breath longer, guarding the calm.

Quiet morning. Soft eye. Settled farm.