There is a stone next to me covered in soft moss. It has been keeping watch for a long time. I dip into and out of its quietness.

Sitting in the rain-soaked garden, listening to the dripping, feeling it swell and freshen.

Sing, sing, the light is winging its way North and will find us, will catch us up and swing us out of our winter sleep.

The snow is a cold delight feathering even the thinnest twigs and bunching its blessing on all the leaves.

The snow is a cold delight feathering even the thinnest twigs and bunching its blessing on all the leaves.