I just returned from from outside. Each morning and evening I put out corn for the deer. Perfect temperatures surrounded me and The Shire. Earlier today I mowed and piled dead limbs that gusty breezes frequently shake from the trees, scattering them at their will. They will be delightfully re-purposed in a ring of stones. For now, however, not a leaf of the willow trembles or flutters, and only the faintest of rings curve out upon the pond spoiling its perfect complexion. Birds are singing.
Halfway up the horizon, one-half of one-half of a waxing moon hangs suspended in the dim stars of the heavens. A few days from now it will be full-orbed. Beyond description is the beauty of this place in the midst of the brokenness of this world. I try not to let this truth become dull to my physical or spiritual senses. It could all be gone tomorrow, but today, I revel in its gift.