We spent some time splashing along the creek this weekend, as well as digging fingers into the leafy duff of a nearby hillside. Sure, the latter was done in a failed attempt to find a letterbox, but the thing about letterboxing is that even a failure is a success. We found fungi and salamanders instead. We also found blossom-scented air, seemingly imported from some other part of the world, somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere where it isn't Winter.

Afterward, at a park, a pair of guitarists played and sang beautifully in the tree shade, small children squawked and careened about, a lone crow sailed by overhead, and we smeared our faces with gelato.

Right now, a hummingbird, looking like a tiny bird-shaped speck, rests on a branch outside my window. Bright sun pours in and paints the table gold. It makes me wonder if it will snow in July.

I recently finished reading Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek", which put me in an observational frame of mind while simultaneously revitalizing my spirit. I want to sit still by the water. I want to breathe abundance. I want to burst forth.

Currently listening to: Murder by Death, "like the Exorcist, but More Breakdancing" Lp