Doors open onto land transformed. Bird song echos through yards. Pitched off tree branches where sap runs bathed in light.
Quail scatter at the sight of.
Sun warmed black cat's fur. Following a meandering path through the garden. Gracefully stepping over brown striped feathers.
Green sprouts, white snow, brown grass. Sun pushes through faded summer blossoms, stained glass in muted tones.
Blue jays squawk, scatter compost clippings. While denim colored feathers fly. Cedar Waxwings trill in tree tops, replacing Eagles. If the cock Pheasant crows. And the Magpie builds it's nest with twigs. Do we dare to question? Can spring be far behind? When the bird that is black sings? Did you enjoy this: you might want to read this post also.
