A phoebe has built a mud nest under the eaves on top of the outdoor lights over the deck. What is it like in that nest at night when we turn the lights on for Gryffin to go out? It must be very bright, but probably also cozy and warm. I first noticed a pile of dirt, sticks, and mud on the deck and wondered how it got there. Now it is obvious ~ it's the overflow from nest building.
Let all things now living a song of thanksgiving
to God the Creator triumphantly raise,
who fashioned and made us, protected and stayed us,
who still guides us on to the end of our days . . .
We too should be voicing our love and rejoicing
with glad adoration a song let us raise
till all things now living unite in thanksgiving:
"To God in the highest, hosanna and praise!"
The swallow was in a panic to get back outside. No one could coax it toward a door. A few people were uncomfortable with a bird flying around them so closely. Finally someone caught the bird in his hat and released it back outside.
Despite our hymn about all of God's creatures uniting in a song of thanksgiving, it may be a long, long while before people and birds unite in songs of praise.
The wildflowers on East Oak Hill are different than those here in the valley. They have a haunting grace up there where the road curves, rises and falls. They bloom in secret places. Their color is touched only lightly by the sun. But when the sun does stike them late in the day, they seem to glow from within.
These are the flowers that bloom from the plant that Rademacher's brought for Rikka's grave. Life is so short and precious. A year ago Rikka was frail, but still determined to walk with us down the road past the old white dog's place. They would see each other out of the corners of their eyes, keep a respectful distance, but leave each other a bit of their scent in greeting, watering the grass at the edge of the white dog's farm.
