Spring Journal: The Joke
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?
Spring Journal: Double
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.
Spring Journal: Fog
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 Journal: Two, yet not two
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.
Spring Journal: Betrayal
We thought spring had arrived.
But last night, snow returned—quietly rewriting everything in white.
This piece is about late snow, broken expectations, and the sorrow of things not going to plan.
But also about what happens when we release the map, and simply notice the cardinal in the laurel.