6:06 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 46 degrees (warmest morning since Christmas), wind 10 mph, traffic-voiced, and forest-conducting, trees creak in concert. Sky: clear, bright, washed in pink, and full of hope and magic. Permanent streams: upper, occasional snow and ice bridge, but mostly open; lower, mostly closed. Near the marsh, where the terrain levels, a twin-tiered flow, meltwater gushing over portions of snow, stream beneath; coming off the hillside, shy flow still hidden, snow showing signs of rot, patches soft and transparent like a bruised tomato. Wetlands: stretches of open water in the main channel, everything else snowbound. Above the marsh, chickadee, a slow, loopy, imperiled flight. Pond: much of the surface cleared and puddled by the sun.
Rhapsody of a raven, above The Hollow, inscribes lazy circles in a sun-flushed sky. Wings extended, unbending, gliding into a headwind, dipping, rising, titling—darkest black against emergent blue. A bird skirting the threshold of the morning accompanies the yellow sun above Robinson Hill. Issues a rolling croak, simplistic and profound, a message of tolerance, of hope imbues the valley like amber light. A charitable bird allows me to assign meaning—the miracle of birth, last night; my granddaughter arrived in Grand Junction, Colorado. Undoubtedly, the raven knows.
Congratulations!!! Many blessings to all!
Best wishes, grandfather--may you soon be able to kiss her toes!