Witness

It was cool this morning. I walked out for work in a thin cotton shirt, and I made a hasty retreat for my jacket. As I walked back out to the truck, I stepped on acorns from the giant water oak tree in my front yard and it sounded like someone crunching ice from a soda fountain drink.
I park my truck under the trees so there was no frost on my windshield though it was cold enough. Off to the east the sun was making its way up over the horizon but there was a bank of grey clouds interfering. A jetliner headed west had left a vapor trail against the clouds that looked like a giant scar.
Off to the west on the Bagwell Farm there was a herd of black cows that I had never noticed before. Standing in the morning mist they looked like silhouettes.
I'm not sure why some days you pay attention and some days things slide by you like a boring movie. I wish I was better at paying attention because we live in an amazing place. The world is full of tastes, smells, and sounds that are extraordinary but we are so wound up with the little things in life that they go unnoticed.
The more I study writing, the more I realize that good writers pay attention. They get it. Not only do they see, hear and smell, but they have the ability to describe these ephemeral things.
We don't get do-overs, so it is my intention to do a better job in the future. I want to be a witness and be able to testify.