Late Winter Morning
If there is anything Fin loves more than listening to the song of a mockingbird, it would have to be listening to a half dozen or more of them singing at once, all over the sphere.
With an obbligato of little frogs singing soprano in wonderment of a 75 degree day in March, and a bass line supplied by some indignant cattle just beyond the tree line to the south.
They nearly drown out the whistling of the cardinals and keeing of the hawks circling overhead, and the faint (this morning) soughing of the pines. (There are five ways that word might be pronounced, but you don’t need to look it up, ‘cause I did, again--- SUFF).
Hope all are enjoying their day as well.