Mornings like this, when the air is redolent of verdant mountains and droplets of moisture cling to every leaf, remind me of camp more than almost anything.
One of my jobs there was to bring the horses in from pasture. Before the sun had a chance to get started, I would rise, don jeans and muck boots, and do my best to noiselessly slip out of the cabin. Even though I held the screen door as it closed, the springs would reverberate softly among the morning bird calls.
In the fading darkness I'd approach the horses. Like baby ducks they'd begin to follow as I headed through each pasture toward the gates, which unlike the screen door opened and closed in silence. As we reached the barn the horses would begin to show their personalities, this one heading straight into its stall, that one having to be coaxed, this third one trying to go in the stall of a friend.
Once they were all put away neatly I'd leave them to the barn girls to feed, my job being only one of retrieval, and head back into the cool, moist air, arriving on the green just in time for the wakeup bell.