I've been reading "The Quick and the Dead", by Louis L'Amour, and chapter five started with a bit of prose so beautiful, I just had to share it here:
Before the sun appeared the earth was still, and silence lay like a blessing upon the land. No blade stirred in the coolness, nor any bird in the sky, only somewhere not too far off, a meadow lark spoke inquiringly into the morning.
One arresting finger of smoke lifted thinly to the sky, and where the horizon drew its line across the heavens, a cloud seemed to lie upon the grass, off where the world curved away from them.
I know that before I started reading him, I didn't expect L'Amour's books to be full of such beauty. But they really are. The man was a master of the craft of writing, and for more than just plot and character.
Peace of Christ to you,
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