I see the window wet with morning dew. Had autumn come upon us and the sun risen late, surely they would form the crystals of winter's foreboding call. But spring has called its vision to us and left a perfect palette of artistic color beneath my window. My day calls to me from the outside, beckoning me to discover its secrets. My day awaits in mundane fashion, a life of leisure combed with chores that must be done, done to perfection each day.
I have lived this life of leisure for ten years now, ten years from the time I struck out on my own. My holdings have grown but not beyond my measure to deal with them, but they leave me wanting. What is the desire that calls to me beyond the rise? Beyond the rise lies the next field, and the next field after that, and the next after that. The valley is ringed with the sentinels of life, those towering giants that contain the Chrystum and protect it from what lies beyond.
That is the question I put to myself with each day. What lies beyond those sentinels? Do they guard the inside from the outside? Do they live solely for the shade that covers them from the mighty mountains beyond their boundary? What do the mists that intrude upon their canopy speak to them? The silken fingers reaching from the fog of the shrouded hills permeates their branches. Only the rising sun has the power to force their retreat. The call from the other side of the sentinels is my want, my need.
Yet I have work to do.