by Dawayne Spires

Created on: November 16, 2008   Last Updated: January 03, 2010

Questions

I walked barefoot on the beach just moments before dawn with the wet sand scrunching up between my toes. I heard the stars say their last farewells as the sun touched the horizon with magenta, orange, and blue. The tapestry of the coming day had begun to be woven before me as I began to realize that I lack the ability to comprehend the simplistic beauty of what was unfolding before my eyes.

"Who made this?" I asked.

All I heard were the shore birds singing their praise to the new day. In the distance, a harbor bell extolled a solitary warning. I remembered an off shore breeze that lightly buffeted my ears as the rhythmic lapping of the waves momentarily took me to a place just beyond consciousness. I could almost hear a voice. There for a second then gone, lost in the sounds of the first of many who would come and share the wonders of the sea, the shore, and the sky.

I hiked in the mountains as the sun shone high overhead. My boots trudged paths of vibrant green flora, rich black earth, and primal reflection. With each step, I remembered feeling exultation as it neared me closer to the lofty peaks of my destination. With every breath of the pristine air, the clutter in my soul would seem to fall away. The trees, both pine and oak, reached their mighty arms skyward as if in praise, but to whom?

"Who made this?" I asked.

All I heard was the echo of a woodpecker tapping its solitary song somewhere beyond a nearby ridge. I remembered that a warm wind rose slowly from the valley below bringing with it the sweet scent of honeysuckle. The honeysuckle's fragrance wrapped my inner being in a blanket of country comfort that for a moment carried me to the place where daydreams are born. I could almost hear a voice. There for a second then gone, lost in the sounds of Mother Nature as she diligently went about her day

I sat by the river in the evening light and watched its waters tirelessly meander. Sometimes it flowed muddy and strong full of froth and energy; other times it trickled peaceful and clear. I remembered at times the wind would seem to settle. It was then a strange, but tranquil quality would fill the air, Sounds of the day preparing to rest could be heard in all directions. Closing my eyes, I would let my imagination attempt to capture the river bottom twilight.

"Who made this?" I asked.

All I heard was the lonesome call of a dove roosted for the night high upon an outstretched limb of a century old cedar. The almost unnatural quiet amplified the

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