A little morning walk with my camera, if only I could have captured the sounds of all of the birds around despite the 28 degrees, singing for spring.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keep so many warm.
Emily Dickinson's Hope is the Thing with Feathers