Thriving on the pond at the bottom of our hill on a morning at the end of March were a young beaver intent on his morning ablutions, two wood ducks resentful of intrusions by this strange mammal, and a couple of Canada goose suddenly aware they slept through take off. The beaver sat on a slushy bit of ice, a small floe broken off from the rest of the pond, which seemed to stubbornly resist spring--or rather to cling to winter.

On the way up the hill: the woodpecker, back from the mysterious place woodpeckers go for the winter. Large, red-headed, and hungry, he pecked and pecked until he could derive breakfast from the dead tree.

After dawn but before the morning parade of traffic is a magical time to walk. Animals move about unselfconsciously; they let you watch. Birds are audible. The sky is a magical blue and grey and white, and the neighbors are friendly as they emerge from their homes with their dogs, their bedhead, and the day ahead on their minds.

I don't think about much more than what's in front of me when I walk. There is peace, there is magic, there is love, and there is beauty in the world. That's enough right there. Good morning.