These are the idyllic days drifting lazily into each other. Where time is measured by light, not the clock. Where activity is directed by inclination not the dead lines of busy work.

I follow the sun on its curve around the garden so I can potter in the soil with the welcome warmth of the sun on my back.

Watching the earthworms writhe. Ink black beetles. A scurry if spiders, scuttling centipedes, swhirls of tiny snails. A small, startled frog. All rudely disturbed from their winter blankets of warm, wet leaf. Carefully relocated to the leaf pile.

Digging in the rot and clearing the way for new life pushing through. Ēostre is in the air. These days are treasure. Moments stolen from a disgruntled world.

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