Moving through the mist of a rich green forest. Silent whispers lace through pine sentinels. The soft carpet of the mountain home. With each step fragrance of morning. Echos of birds on the wing. Stopping, turning the head, listening for a moment.
Eyes looking deep past the cascade of primordial color.

What was that? Did I hear a voice?
Again, moving forward with careful steps, still listening then an almost silent scurry in the undergrowth.
Maybe a vole taking home a treat for the little ones.

Stopping again. What was that? Was it someone calling out?

Walking like a petulant debutante a Turkey hen moves from behind a bush.
Each step as careful as if treading through a mine field of haughty scrutiny.

The memory of an unheard voice is pierced by a shaft of morning light warming the shoulder.

Sacred moments of living held as smoke cupped in hands.

Something about us earth walkers. We dream of flying.
The dreams may vary from just drifting lightly above the ground to soaring. Sometimes holding the breath just so or thinking a special thought we slip by gravity.
One jumps and the time in the air is endless. Dreams that free us from the hard reality of the waking world.

The dreamer is the dream.

Only in a nightmare do we seek a more conscious state.

When the Fog rolls in.
When the Rain is to thick.
When Sand Storms are too big.
When Snow becomes Blizzard.
And mostly, when everything looks the same.

The lost horizon in our lives shimmers in memory that does not beckon us.
The advantage is to keep moving. In movement that is cautious yet deliberate.

How easy to stop moving. To live in fear. We who are free move towards the horizon. Those of us who are slaves are keeping our head bowed, do as we are told. We have no horizon.

How does someone who is free teach a slave what freedom is?
How does one show a slave, they are a slave?

Sprinkling showers of Spring glistening in the Sunlight. Puffy white billowing clouds drag rain showers across the landscape. Each blade of grass sings the growth electric. Insects draw the moisture, dry their wings, or dance above the sparkling puddles in transit.

In the desert this rain is a blessing. How could rain be anything but a blessing to a thirst so demanding that life would end without it.

Rain will pass. Dry will pass. Cold will pass. Heat will pass. Each a blessing in it's own right. They are the blessing of a mortal world. They are the change as light is to dark.
The blessings come and go. Sometimes there is too much of a good thing and a blessing becomes something else.
The seasons are of mortal blessing.

What are our mortal blessings? Do we deluge ourselves with too much of a good thing until it becomes something else?
Something senseless?

Do we know the seasons of our desires, our needs, and our fears?
Can we see it?

May sun shine follow your mortal blessing of these Spring showers