Ghosts

Look at how delicate these leaves are—ghosts of leaves, really. I picked them up on my way to the mailbox. It was a clear, cold, sunny day here today and whereas I usually hurry,often through the rain, out to get the mail,  I was taking my time today, enjoying the sunshine and checking to see if the daffodils have started to emerge yet. They have. Scattered over the path to the mailboxes were winter worn leaves, delicate and fragile as moth wings.

This morning, on our walk, we saw a bald eagle. Paula and Beth and I were marching resolutely rounding the far end of the trail that passes the back side of an apartment complex. We heard a man shouting from a balcony, "Ladies! Ladies! —  eagle!"  We stopped and watched, mouths hanging open, as the magnificent bird circled over our heads, close enough to see his eyes, then soared into the treetops. We stood there, dumbstruck, for several minutes, watching to see if he'd return. He didn't.

It seems to me that the older I get the more these small wonders of nature affect me. This entire day was made slightly miraculous by the sight of that eagle this morning. Those ghostly leaves scattered in my path felt like gifts. Finding money on the ground would not have been any better.