Crunch sounds pop up to the ear of any that wander across. The hop prints of a rabbit intrigue. Three feet between landings spark a laugh. Three marks at each hop point to feet and cold bottom intersections with surprise. Gladness for fur and fluffed tail surely are in his heart these last few days.
Weather is good. This morning, no breath can be seen. The air is too warm. The trees hold on to the new color as long as possible. Roots rejoice at slow moisture preparing them for Sprint. Under the blanket it is warm for them. Under the blanket the soft leaf mash gives the ground double cover.
Leaves are hilarious dancers of the denizen of turkey and robin and woodpecker and deer and rabbit and snake. These chameleons of the wood have many expressions. A few escape and flip across the snow pack with a little wind. Most are being transformed from snow cocoon to wet decay. In a few months these will be dirt not leaf. One early escapee now rests on the top, his snow angel around him showing off artistic flair.
The oxygen is fresh. Fresh to nose and lung and eye is this air. Clear lines give visibility untouched by dirt and exhaust of machine. Spring will bring a different fresh. Now there is no dirt. The air has been swept with successive cleansings. Mositure rises from slow melt and nothing is added.
Pile are missing. Dirty piles of man made drifts in parking lots are absent. Hurray! Hurry is not here. No animal hurries to clear a path for his Tonka. Worry is not heard.
Driving down all the pains and problems and worries and pressures popped out of my heart and mind and mouth. It is a shame anyone had to hear that. The snow trapped workers at home and left promises unkept. The snow kept delivery trucks slowed and packages piling on shelves. People collided in stores and internet with frantic indecisiveness.
Countries war. Revolutions boil. Not here. Woodpeckers knock for bugs here. It is a welcome sound. Finches chirp and thrushes sing. The wind wooshes a little with left over leaves that remain on limb til junior pushes them off in a month. All that other stuff does not come here.
My Summer neighbor is building a new house. He loves to build. No saws or hammers today. They will come. Like the beaver at the fishing hole, he will work the nights and build his lair. Then the noise of hammer becomes the laughter of children and smoke of cookout. That is good. That is life.
All of this cleans mind and heart. Someone reminded me I have reached the double nickel. Life is close to halfway lived on this planet. Another home awaits me. That is the plan of which I know. Other plans could change those dates. Snow could come and paint my landscape different. Rabbits might hop across my outlook and leave a different scene. This carbon leaf might mash and wet under the cocoon and flip to dirt earlier than expected.
Okay. Rest is good. Change of venue is welcome but not sought. Yo te busco. Te anehlo. Te amo. You are here. No need to wait to enjoy. The rest is under my feet and in my lungs and before my eyes.
Receive wearied soul. Take. Eat. Commune. Converse. Cleanse deep.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T
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