In the counter-shadow of dawn’s beginning light, beneath skies gray from spring mourning, water shone as a blanket, even on shallow-slopes where clumped grasses dammed and held it from its run, appearing as snow absent pale glow in season before. Blades of grass shone green up through the standing water, breaking the mirror surface of pools and puddles that reflected back no light. The world was a mess but, in some seasons, such is life; and most often it is of these conditions that growth and new beginnings rise.
Dawn would not show today as a breaking of Wonder but, instead, as darkness that shaded into malaise, as is the spirit of days begun without magic or guiding light. He would don his knee-high mud boots, using every inch of their sidewall in the feedlots and sponge-earth pastures where tractors cut ruts and sent outward currents roiling from their tracks as earth compressed and water rose and ran.
The world was a mess as far as eye could see: matte puddles over ground that could take no more and gray skies that muted all but the color of new-flush grass, bright green, that could not be denied. The world was a mess, but growing, and in spite of the beginning gray—with a little light—everything could change.