I filled the bird feeder a couple of days ago. In the dry grass, pushing it's way up through the damp cracked shells, was a lovely sprout. He, like most seeds and bulbs around here, was a bit confused by the balmy temperatures and dewy mornings. Despite the almanac's insistence we are firmly ensconced in winter, nature is forcing itself into being . No surprise since seeds can't read.
We had a lightening storm here last night and according to my husband, lightning struck our backyard, mere feet from our bedroom window, on my side of the bed, where I was reclined. He seemed awfully calm about the whole thing but I was freaked out enough to get the rest of the way out of bed (I jumped a few feet when the crack sounded) and huddled in the living room to finish reading Atonement by Ian McEwan. Which was a good read by the way, but has an ending that made me double back and reread a few key passages. The book coupled with near death by lightening conspired to cause me fitful dreams full of metaphysical conundrums. So I'm just going to stare at my little sprout here and think happy thoughts for the rest of the day.