Green church

January 29

Morning-song.  The chirping choir, serenade, trill and warble of it all. They raise an hallelujah, a song of praise.  The still bare trees show their architecture and reach into the baby-blue.  In the distance is the sound of traffic, and somewhere a chainsaw wails, but I shut it out. The snow has gone – ground saturated and lake overflows its banks, but on the woodland slopes, snowdrops show their buds, and catkins dance.  Today, being pagan would make absolute sense.

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