(My wife, Gina, often underestimates her own writing abilities. She read me something she wrote earlier today, and I thought it lovely enough that it deserved a wider audience...reminiscent of Henry Beston and Robert P. Tristram Coffin.)
It is a snowy day here, in southern Washington. Not a lot of accumulation - only a couple of inches. Just enough to make everything look beautiful. As I sit here typing, I am looking out of the window beside me, and across the way a bit is a large tree full of ravens. There must be 25 of them there, waiting for me to throw out more corn and nuts for them. Along the back fence, a varied thrush is sitting, singing a vesper song, while the sparrows and chickadees chirp out a pagan chorus - singing lusty songs of bird love alongside him. And still the snow falls, a silent white veil that hisses and shooshes against the window every now and then, flying wherever the wind takes it. A beautiful symphony - a gift from nature that I am enjoying alone, drinking my coffee, and sharing my thoughts with you.
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