Hope is the thing with feathers

Last evening I was working in the kitchen when WOW, out of the corner of my eye the tree line to the east lit up as if someone had flipped a switch. The sun was just over the horizon and the clouds had parted for a show of colour. I went to the front of the house in time to see a spectacular sunset with vibrant pink reflecting onto the snow.

We drew our seats closer to the centre of the circle in the writing group today as the roster has dwindled due to the lucky people who have gone south. We sat in the cold corner of the library with the large windows drafting cold air onto our shoulders. The reflection from the snow casts a harsh light... and at least I was giving thought to the lucky warm travellers.

Grace's avian friends went home today. I'm not sure that there is any sorrow in Grace, she doesn't seem to give them any notice either way.

'642 tiny things to write about': "British scientists germinated 200-year-old seeds from a Dutch merchant who'd collected them on a trip to the Cape of Good Hope. Though they've identified many of the sprouted plants, one remains a mystery until it flowers. Describe the flower and give it a name."

"The earth lay about its green stem like a crinkly black crinoline on a skinny girl. The stalk grew taller and taller until it the tip of the bud was soaring over the other plants. A white floret started pushing its way free of the gauzy veil that cradled it. As the first rays of the morning sun struck it, brilliant white petals spread their wings and the outline of a white dove emerged. Juxtaposed against the TV screen rolling an endless reel of unrest and war, Good Hope Peace Flower was the only nomenclature it needed."

Pretty lame ending, but it was fun to write as it is totally out of my normal topic.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

Emily Dickinson