The Prayer

At the break of light, the clock on the kitchen wall works in concert with the rise and fall of his chest. Upstairs, his wife steps to the window to pray. Her hands are folded. Her eyes open wide. Pasture and sky bookend her sightlines. The old house settles on its stumps, deep in the soil, and the land revels in its own dawn wonder. The day cannot begin. Not yet. Not until the full arrival of himself. And the commitment of the sun, with its fire, its faithful labor, his partner on the land through another long day. Down the hall, she closes her prayer book, but the prayer continues. It’s in the creak of a house. It’s in the grumble of a tractor. It’s in the pasture’s slow brightening. And it’s an all-day petition. There’ll be no “amen” until nightfall.