Worship comes early. Raven croak tolls through cedars along the river.

A rose window of clouds skips through morning – shadow and light, shadow and light, and floats in the weave of wind in the tree tops.

Spring, the river swift, ice and snow in pine shadows reluctant to give up their hold at stream’s edge.

Moss, dull under winter’s debris, brightens to emerald. The sun nourishes its famished heart.

Solitude’s reward the surge and rumble of water under the bridge.

It echoes and releases the benumbed ground, thundering and rushing from the fragile, lacy ice of the lake.

A true believer dances a graceless ballet, hop, skip and jump over ragged cavities awash in melt along the path.

Mud and grass struggle for dominance, one chills, the other proclaims a warm green hope. An affable sun casts benediction.

Chickadee song stakes territory and pipes enticement.

Footfall shatters a slender branch and launches wood ducks from sedate cruising near the shore, morning’s communion suspended.

Peepers slumber –curled in their swampy beds, too soon the time, indolent, reluctant to stir, the day too brisk.

Fish have not made their spring run, hesitant before the emergent season.

I wait – listen. There is time for all things.

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