Today I woke slowly, swimming in shallow sleep for hours, a baby latched to my breast in her own quiet pool of dreams. In the other room we could hear voices, one big, another small, the knocking of dishes; the sounds of morning.

Today I drove Rawhide Road in a feral wind. The gales licked at the car and ran through the grass, moving it as if it were the pelt of something wild and immense. 

Today I sat in our newly mowed yard with my daughter between my knees. As we rocked I saw that her legs are a twins of my own, only smaller. The same slim knees, perpetually bruised from our distracted nature. The same colorless skin, translucent like candle wax or expensive Japanese paper.

Today I pulled the cord on the tiller, felt it jerk me forward and the earth turn underneath. I was reminded of my strength, the able body I often ignore in favor of more cerebral pursuits. But there it was. Muscles long ignored, sighed happily in the late afternoon. Yes, more of this, they breathed.

Today I stood with my husband in our yard, planting dreams of bigger, perhaps better things. Some chickens, yes. Maybe a teaching job in the fall. We surveyed the land, our land. Along with the weeds, our doubts were cleared. 

Yes. Today was good. And tomorrow will be even better.