the wind whistles through the pine boughs
making purple shadows on the ground,
Sometimes the sound steals into my brain,
leaves me restless like the whistle of a passing train,
or the night call of a snowy owl.
There are times I fight the urge to fly,
and then again, there are those sometimes
when I spread my wings and head for open sky,
like now, as I lose myself in the dog-eared pages
of a world gone digital…I cherish the printed word
but the splendid pieces shared here
are each one a new miracle
to be celebrated with gratitude.