This morning I awoke to the sound of birds, jubilant sounds to a sleepy mind and a body ready for a change in season. When my little boy woke up and walked out of his room, he began to ask me for juice but was stopped. He ran to our glass door and said, “Birds, mommy.”
In the evenings a twosome of Sandhill Cranes has been flying by, their distinctive refrain echoing over the prairie as they fly to their nest close to water.
When we pass by some of the ranches, little black calves lie in rows; some are strong enough to begin playing.
The deer and the pronghorn have begun following their ancient migration routes.
There is still snow, but there is mud, too. Puddles of mud the kids like to jump in.
May flowers will not come to our region of the world, but the rivers are flowing. Transformations are taking place.
In the evenings a twosome of Sandhill Cranes has been flying by, their distinctive refrain echoing over the prairie as they fly to their nest close to water.
When we pass by some of the ranches, little black calves lie in rows; some are strong enough to begin playing.
The deer and the pronghorn have begun following their ancient migration routes.
There is still snow, but there is mud, too. Puddles of mud the kids like to jump in.
May flowers will not come to our region of the world, but the rivers are flowing. Transformations are taking place.
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