Light rain verging on snow, cool breeze verging on a cold wind. Borders everywhere, lines only waiting to be crossed. The dogs and I went further than usual, stopping at last beneath an old familiar pine tree, and listened to the river. Or I listened to it. Take solace where you can, and beauty too.
The decision-making mind ever at work, ever humming. Parsing the world into good and bad, right and wrong. And the body tags along like just because. I do not see lights, auras and understand infrequent moments of prescience to be reflections of the law of large numbers.
Yet crows make me happy, always have. Chickadees too, particularly their two note Spring song. Sophia and I watched an owl swoop in front of us and I loved it the same way I love bears, filling with a barely containable joy, then spilling over and following. Water is not a bad metaphor at all. Nor are trails.
Trails, paths . . . The intensity of prayer lately with no apparent corresponding benefit makes me smugly happy. If I can’t have lights, then I’ll have ashes and sackcloth. And all the while Jesus just grins, follows, points out this bud or that shoot. Look, he says, another crow, this one missing a feather in its wing . . .
So another day begins in the world I cannot quite believe is not real . . .