Honey

You were saying how you adored the wild native colors and grasses when a flurry of red touched - just barely held - a reed that bowed deeply. And it felt auspicious; Cardinal red, a punctuation against the sand and stone of our northern hill. We imbue dimension into mundane (but beautiful) happenings so that birds are more than birds. They are spirits, fathers, grandmothers, messengers, winged disruptors. And why not? Beat down to believing life is waking and working until hope is just a gasp between days instead of a glad assent to sunrise and hope-soaked moments, thickening time like raw sweetness off the honeycomb.