Ravens

Two ravens greeted me on my way to the bus stop, the other day. As I walked by, one of them flapped it's great wings a few times, unconvincingly, and went back to searching for bugs a couple feet from where it had been standing before I came. I slowed down to look, and to keep from scaring them away. The second raven stood there, unalarmed. I stared at it and admired it's deep black feathers and curved beak. It stared back at me, not so impressed. I shrugged and went on my way.

Every year, around this time, I can't seem to see anything but beauty. Some trees are so brilliant they look like a snapshot of fire. Even those trees that keep their leaves green have their charm. They always have. There's a tree on my walk home, for example, which never fails to make life peaceful. It's leaves hang down from it's branches, and even the gentlest breeze will make them rustle like a cross between the sound of rain and waves at the beach. I can't say I stop to smell the roses, exactly, but I least I slow down and try to catch a whiff of their scent as I walk by.