12.06.15  After a solid week in which our valley has been under a dense inversion, the clouds finally lifted off the horizon.  I could hear the soft sound of waves last night in my sleep, and knew I would see some light, some definition, some clarity this morning.  It takes my breath away to stand at the head of the lake on mornings such as these.  There is still ice at the edge, but the sound of the waves, where the water meets the ice, is a rolling roar which fills the air, the entire space.  There is nothing but this exhilarating moment–the place we can come home to, every moment.

Landscape, by Mary Oliver

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky—as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.