The skies are a lovely mottled blue gray. It’s cold enough for a coat and scarf. But I’m glad to be out, breathing more deeply and gratefully than I do indoors. Everywhere I look I see something beautiful.
Tiny flowers emerging around last autumn’s leaves.
Bracket fungus (conk) on a tree, forming a perfect awning over woodpecker holes.
Convoluted paths in the dirt. We think these were routes tunneled by mice under the snow, now impressions left on the ground after spring’s thaw.
A Cooper’s hawk coasting on air currents folds its wings and plummets groundward in a glorious swoop that spells doom for a tiny mouse. It reminds me how cosmologist Brian Swimme teaches that neither creature would be what they are without the other. The hawk’s sharp eyesight, speed, and precision are honed by it’s prey’s keen awareness, ability to freeze in place, skill at burrowing and dodging. The pressure of hunger and the urge to survive work together to create distinctive species.
Only a few days, and the bulbs that were barely emerging
are now forming blooms.
After our walk Winston eyes the porch. He’s missed barking at the delivery person but because it’s spring the door is open and that means he can growl quietly at the package left behind. Ah, the joy.