At a certain time of the evening, the last rays of the sun paint a golden glow on the tall firs. We call it “the nice light” when that happens. The morning light is similar, but the glow isn’t as warm as the evening light.
Riled up clouds go lumbering by,
Stirring up unsettled sky,
Wispy, misty moisture passes,
Light diffused upon its masses.
Sun’s last efforts streaming low,
Just before it lets us go,
Into darkness for some hours,
As the clouds spit out their showers.
Promises of warmer rays,
Shining down in coming days,
Though Sun sleeps behind the hill,
It will rise again, it will.
Morning rays revitalize,
More than we can realize,
But for now it says good night,
Telling all of us, “Sleep tight.”
Orson, the Oregon junco, has found a sunny spot to rest.
“Ooooh! This is so toasty on my body. The sun has warmed the railing. It feels glorious after so much cold wind.”
“Ahh … this is SO nice! I’ll get some of that warmth on my throat too. Oh, my goodness, that is so wonderful.”
“Oops! Excuse me. Nature calls. I’m trying to be modest, turning my back, but why do I have the feeling I’m on Candid Camera?”
“Hmm … the evidence … it’s still there. What to do? What to do? Oh, no! I’m such a birdbrain.”
“I just can’t have anyone pointing an accusing feather, saying it was me. They’ll probably put it on Twitter. Still, I needn’t worry. If they put anything on Twitter, the birds would be canceled for expressing an unpopular opinion. Meanwhile, only one thing to do and that’s flee the scene of the crime.”
The evidence was left behind, but before a half hour passed by, the heavens opened up and the whole deck was full of evidence. Well … it looked like more evidence.
Loads of evidence covered the railing as a freak hailstorm blew in and then out again as quickly as it had come. Orson was spared many accusations, and he felt a lot lighter.
Yesterday was like a usual West Coast winter’s day. Wind and rain, followed by rain and wind.
This morning it looked like Christmas on the hills. Luckily we don’t live up in the hills.
The air is still icy and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s March, still cold, but with a promise of warmer days to come. It reminded me of the stupid “Knock, Knock” joke which I’m sure you’ve all heard.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Marshall.
Marshall who?
Marshall come in like a lion and go out like a lamb.
May it be so!
There’s hope, if these daffodils are telling the truth.
wordsfromanneli 