Like the wicked witch of the west, the mounts of giant snow/ice/frozen mush seem to be diminishing, revealing beneath itself muddied earth. Looking a tad battered but resilient nevertheless, the earth emerges, readied for this springtime, convinced of the possibility of renewal.
The mommy herons sit on their nests, high up in trees in their rookery,convinced too, it appears, of the inevitable springtime.
New life, new birth, new warmth, new possibility hover in the air.
Less convinced am I, more battered by the losses of winter. Still I choose to take my lead from the heron, from the earth,and allow the cycles of change to unfold.