"When I saunter, I pause. I look around and listen. I give time for what might happen next. It’s a long, slow thank-you for the day ahead."
Moxie Bald Mountain, Appalachian Trail
The birds leave in their wake a strange summer, a time of despair and also of gratitude.
Flickr / Jamie Holly
The great poem “The Waste Land,” by T.S. Eliot, begins with these lines: “April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire …”
Home on the Range
"One of my favorite sights begins as a line of dark shapes in the woods moving towards the clearing."