Waiting for Daybreak
Dawn was always tardy on that designated day, or so it seemed to three young girls anxious to find the perfect Christmas tree. Faces pressed against the window, we
watched the horses as they stamped impatiently snorting steamy breath into the air, nodding their heads as if deep in conversation.
“What d’ya think they’ll pick this year, a cedar or a pine?” Old Smokey might be asking of Fast Mike, so called because his only pace was slow or stop. Age put him out to pasture but for this one glorious snow-swept day, so gray the sun might have changed its mind on shining.
Mittens and mufflers and brightly colored hats, knitted by my mother’s patient hands, were waiting at the ready for the first faint sign of daybreak, while father rigged the harness gingerly, knowing once we heard the bells day had begun.
View original post 557 more words