Spring Metro and Snow

Feathers in Snow

Slowly but surely I'm mining my secret place journals, to find just the perfect bits for God in the Yard. Of course that means much will be left behind, tucked silently into pages, out of view. So I thought, why not... why not set them here, on this little table, a tiny centerpiece over which you and I can sip tea.

March 20, 2007

I am amazed by the squirrels, how they chase and tumble and travel the "squirrel metro" across this little woods, in five seconds flat. The metro is a lacework of branches on which they skip and scurry. One squirrel has been upside down for a few minutes, eating knobbly parts of the tree. Is he eating the tree? The air is cold; my bottom is cold— the snow searing straight through my sled. But the sun is hot. How is it I never noticed this aspect of spring before? The terrible tension of hot and cold on a single day.

Water drips with a constancy and sounds oddly like the crackle of fire. I think that cleansing by water is strange indeed if it is actually a purging fire.

Two feathers blow softly in the snow. I move them and think absently that my Sara will see them when she comes out. She does, as I suspected she might. They are a treasure passed on.

Sip. Smile. Sigh.

Feathers in the Snow Photo, by L.L. Barkat.

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