I watched her moving througout the day - throughout the house from one sunny spot to the next ... much like I did in fact. It was a beautiful, lazy Saturday. But with crazy wild winds - not so great for photos.
I tried to settle and read, but could never get far before that restless feeling took over and the day called me out again. Before I knew it I found I had cleaned off the patio ... cleaned the birdbath. And soon I was setting up the water fountain .... setting out fresh seed and suet ... examining the rose bush for new growth. Amazing to me how the years finely tune our bodies and spirits to the seasons - and somehow we just seem to know. Spring. It is almost time for the miracles of it.
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
~ by Walt Whitman