The forecast for today is "sunny and high in the mid fifties." !!! In our passive solar living space the temperatures will become absolutely toasty, into the seventies.

In the winter, I light the fire in the wood stove and soon I'm sighing, "Ah, warm." By August, though, I know I will be seeking out the basement and sighing, "Ah, cool." I'm glad I have a place to sit, down there, by the north-facing door, the only north-facing opening in the house. In the winter, we're happy to leave our outdoor wraps and boots down there, and scurry to warmth. In summer, it's a fine place to wait for the washer to stop.

Yesterday I noticed for the many-eth time how sunshine polishes the bare tree branches. A sheen, gleaming like the finest furniture finish, the best hand-waxed and steadily, regularly, lovingly polished pieces. And nothing is missed, no curve or cranny where wax accumulated with dirt and crated a dullness. All is curved and clean and cared for.

I first noticed this fine, natural polish eleven years ago when illness brought me to stillness. As I continue to observe the chaotic perfection of the natural world I am so comforted by the sense that I am not in charge (neither are you, but together we are enormously powerful), and still all is well. What feels like the worst will happen, and all is well, all is well.

In the time of heavy snow, I noticed that on dim, cloudy days, even all the reflected light didn't create much shadow. Big, solid tree trunks or smaller, solid me, all wrapped up in my many layers of clothes, we just didn't have much of an impact on the distribution of light, it was all sort of evened out and dull. The daylight was just dull, even day. On days of full sun, though, the shadows were sharp, clear, so finely wrought that even the wire of electric fencing showed as precise lines on the whiteness beneath. The wind tousling high branches created shadow play dances, performance art on the snow. On those days of full sun, even the shadows were brighter than the brightest places on days dimmed by clouds. There is powerful metaphor here. Available for notice.

Mallard ducks are nesting on Deer Creek, and not yet accustomed to my passing. I don't even notice them until they fly.

Early this morning a pregnant doe and the twin yearlings were browsing in the vinca not thirty feet from the table where I sat writing cards. They know from their short life experience that they need not be too cautious in this place. I read the articles about deer overpopulation, and yet there they are, their ears so alert and trimmed with dark fur, their backs tawny, so perfectly colored to fit into their environment. So graceful and beautiful and hungry for life.