One day snow. The next a river of rain in the sky. And then we’re out working in shirt sleeves while it’s 75 in the sun.

The river slowly settles after the dumping of warm rain stripped snow from the hills and even the mountains appear bare.

Early morning, robins speckle the pasture along with horses, chickens and the backyard covey of thirty or so plump round quail that scamper for shelter in still leafless blackberry groves when the dogs and I walk by.

Five geese, newly returned for their breeding season down by the shore, bickering over who will claim this prime nesting ground with green grass and guard dogs.

The chirping of the phoebe that spent winter nights tucked in under the eve over the porch door is finally met with her partners whistle, having recently returned from who knows where.

This morning all remain enveloped in a veil of heavy air, a layer of thick fog separating us from the sky.

The inevitability of change.

And the reluctance, at times to the point of refusal and denial, to change.

In an hour or two, the sun will shine. The air will feel lighter. The geese will settle. The chickens and quail will stay in the shade as the red tail rests on the tip of the tallest snag and the almond blossoms will lure honey bees with their heavenly fragrance that enwraps me as I turn fresh soil and scatter seeds nearby.

Shine, sister, shine.

Sometimes it feels like the last spark is petering out.

It is not.

It is just waiting

For you to catch your breath

And blow it back into a flame.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin