I know, that title sounds like a bad 6th grade poetry assignment.
I can't help it. Here at the Homestead it's spring and I feel like I'm in the 6th grade. I find myself sniffing the air and rubbing moss with my finger tips. I want to ramble through the woods with a wax paper wrapped PBJ sandwich in my pocket and eat it by the creek at the bottom of the hill. But I can't. I have work to do today. Instead I take a moment and watch the birds do what I wish I could.
The Northern Flickers are calling back and forth. The White-Crowned Sparrows chase each other from tree to tree and a Robin lilts the song he only sings now, when the Morel mushrooms are about to spring up from the thick brown duff in the woods.
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