Sunday, April 20, 2025, 49.1* Easter
It rained hours ago, the deck almost dry from winds proclaimed to begin in another two hours. Although small craft and wind advisories remain, the gale watch is no longer posted. There is a Red Flag Warning. Some bird, not the Heron, perhaps a raven flew through clashing trees as I marked another celebration of life with a photo.
Saturday, I heard the flute bird sing. Another Hermit Thrush has come home again. Last night spring peepers presented their first chorus unsettling the three who inspected the dark, who ran excitedly barking through their fenced-in space.
Unrestrained, tree silhouettes rhumba across venetian blinds. If the carabiner lets go, the round solar light may at any moment fly through the window. Soleil beams herself further into the room exploring bookshelves of symbols, psychology, angels, photo paper, classics; she reflects briefly on a bronze dog, returns to the blackbird perched on a rock, points out dust. She doesn’t touch the violin, can't reach the paper mâché leopard, she doesn’t spend time on abstract art, she doesn’t converse with Furby nor pour a cuppa from the blue and white teapot. Content in this room, Soleil communes quietly reminding me of days my husband sat with me.
Let us acknowledge the Lord;
let us press on to acknowledge him.
As surely as the sun rises,
he will appear;
he will come to us like the winter rains,
like the spring rains that water the earth.
Hosea 6:3
Photo: LJ Austin
