The sun rises through the pines—first orange, then winter-white. Upstairs, my son stirs into another middle school morning. Outside, frozen dew becomes a thousand prisms on the grass. This reflection is about light, time, and the tender beauty found in simply noticing.

This morning, the woods are still bare— but the air overflows with song. Not “birdsong.” Not names. Just this voice. That trill. That sharp, perfect call. This piece is about listening without labels. About slipping past the map into the living world itself.

Spring has returned. Crocus flames bloom. Birds rise with the sun. Light pours into everything that breathes. This piece is about that light— how it moves through flowers, foxes, seaweed, song… and us. We are not apart from the world. We are the latest ripple in its ocean of becoming.

The valley awakens in purple fire. Snow crocuses rise from frost-heaved ground—tiny, defiant, luminous. This reflection is about early blooms, a single honeybee, and the deep magic that binds them. Two, yet not two. Flower and bee. Light and earth. You and the world. Spring begins here.

Fog changes everything. Sound sharpens. Edges blur. The sky comes down to rest in the valley like a sleeping cat. This reflection is about cloud-walking at ground level— a world remade in white linen, where even thorns wear jewels and every birdcall feels close enough to touch.

Spring has arrived—soft ground under bare feet, crocuses and daffodils blazing in morning light. But beside the flowers, a tangle of garter snakes stirs in the sun. This reflection is about beauty in all its forms—petaled or scaled. It’s about clearing the lens of judgment and seeing the world for what it is: Miracle. Motion. Renewal.

For nearly two years, one red cardinal waged war against his own reflection— striking window after window, fighting a rival made only of light and fear. This piece is about that bird. About what happens when we mistake illusion for threat… and what grace feels like when we finally stop hitting the glass.

Today, between storm clouds and sunlight, a double rainbow arched above the valley. Sharp and vivid at first, then slowly dissolving into watercolor softness before vanishing entirely. A reminder of how beauty arrives suddenly, intensely, and briefly— impossible to hold, perfect in its passing.

The groundhogs don’t know the stream floods. They just dig. Sip. Rest. Begin again. This piece is about watching them work— And realizing we do the same. We build our lives beside a stream that will rise and sweep it all away. But in that certainty, there’s freedom. In that impermanence, a strange lightness. What if falling… is just another word for flight?

During the eclipse, everything familiar grew strange. Noon looked like dusk. Birds sang the wrong songs. The valley turned sepia. This reflection is about that rare shadow— and the other eclipses we live through silently: grief, illness, depression. But shadows pass. The smaller thing cannot forever block the greater light.

The valley turns green from the bottom up. Clover unfurls. Deer rise from the grass. The stream whispers. Birds sing dusk into being. This reflection is about spring’s soft abundance— and the quiet miracle of being part of it all. Nothing is separate. Everything is complete.

The Spring Peepers are back— a single, bell-like voice calling through the darkness, announcing spring’s return. This reflection is about what begins in puddles that vanish. Tiny, temporary worlds that hold entire lifetimes— and the soft chorus that reminds us: everything transforms.

Spring has returned with a shout— green bursting from every branch, every stone, every breath. This reflection is about a single dogwood blossom high in the canopy… and how, from the angle of a wheelchair, it became visible—separate, and yet never apart. Everything flows. Everything belongs. Even what stands out for a moment.

One spring morning, my son and I planted milkweed. We talked about soil. And butterflies. And the illusion of separateness. He’s thirteen—his mind busy with bikes and girls and dreams of his first truck. He may not remember the words. But maybe he’ll remember the light. The dirt beneath our hands. The feel of being together. This piece is about parenting, impermanence, and planting truths that may only bloom when the time is right.