This morning I walked out to see three Western Blue Birds in the front yard.  They saw me and we all regarded each other briefly.  When they determined that I would neither eat them nor feed them, they went about the business of being blue birds in winter; they foraged for what they could find in the dead grass.  So delicate and pretty.  Yet so hardy.

I turned on the random iTunes and “Where Rivers Meet,” came on.  William Eaton Ensemble.  Glorious.  There can be no sitting still in the presence of such wonderful music.  I was suddenly a blue bird.

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