5 am?

5 am?

What does such a horrendous hour have to do with me?
Blackbirds!   Loads of blackbirds!

Wake up and find out...... It's magical and free (except for a bit of shut-eye!)
👀

And I hate running! Or not?

Now we know she does not run.... getting her out to walk is a problem, even
with the dog.
But here is a  faith story and the Other running 'long side!

https://medium.com/@rhondakrol/in-the-midst-of-the-race-a61bf42e12ef

More Writing!

Competition entered.... learning, learning!

What does the mysterious queen have to do with writing?   Check the link
below and support me with claps for the March competition.

https://medium.com/@rhondakrol/how-it-ended-1fc538e0d142

Autumn's uprising through my kitchen window

It was halfway up the pine before I caught sight of it.  
 The eternal vine of weediness where  it should not have been 
but we allowed for its coverage
 and its color.

Masked by bough and the neighbors' more cultivated variety 
now spread more beautiful than a painting on their southern wall, 
where the window should be but never was, 
we always said.

The leafy likeness and almost redness betrayed an ulterior rise to prominence. 
  The covered up wall could be more than happy at its blanket,

but living things fight other living ones to survive.

Would I be in time to pull down the creeping encroachment
 while warmer weather lasts?   
Would I bother  if the sun delayed
 and my tardiness
 burdened it
 into winter. 

  Could the pine forgive me ?

Would I pardon myself at pine's end?

Spring to Summer to Autumn Again

All of nature had a heyday of health with heat
     and happiness (if measured in green...)
Summer trumped the year, satisfied its customers
     and held parties with each blooms budding.

 Pace slows, the late rains begin and aromatic air
     turns dank and misty at its first cool bout.
When the sun returns, the warmth does too,
     but the spiders know their webs are needed now.
The flocks also sense something in the breeze.
The plants hurry their harvest and retreat
     instead of advancing as before.
More becomes few, fresh falls to finish.

Color has the last laugh.   The unneeded unfurl their flushed finale
     and drop to protect the life-giving tree,
     which hoards the rain in deepest root,
     which hardens for the shortened days ahead.
Which day is today.

The Daffodil

The single flower, the daffodil, my Lord's lesson to me of His love.

      The Lent lily is bright against the greening background.   The tulips are the real  stars of our garden, and they are yet  hard and green among the rest.
'Not noticed that single bloom before.'
                        Now in full bloom, it will probably be gone when the tulips' glory days come.
      How like my life the daffodil with its yellow burst of color, one of a kind, loved, for all its loneliness, still it finds a place near Him.   It is loved by my Lord, Whose placement has proven a lesson among the Spring flowers.

                        No need  be amidst the crowd to bless and be blessed. 
            Jesus is Lover of our souls, for His garden we grow to serve His purpose.   
For His pleasure are we planted, and here we produce and propagate others of our kind. 
  
                      We wave in the breeze and await His good will.

The Ever -- Continuing Heralds of Spring

Chapter 4:  The Buzzers
The scent was there.   Cleaning day was upon us.   We, the fifty-three of the multitude, fanned out to feel the wind and survey the barren leftovers of the life we had abandoned so long ago.   What pitiful emptiness of apocalypse.  Frosty air greeted us greyly.    Every excursion was met with the awful bleak reality.   

But where the scent?   Some food was about, it was up to us to find it.   Too wet yet.   The waiting was extended.  A few white bells, some yellow flowered sticks , we would wait. 

The scent was back, something about to break forth perhaps.   Our group was the lucky one to see the purple stars within the cover of ground forest.   Only a few now but promise of more unopened.   we took the samples home,  we laid them at her feet.   The next passings would bring more.

More and more popped out near the wall of mighty trees.   They had gathered many of the purple stars at their feet.   Great joy was there, our first joy after the apocalypse.   The scent deepened with each passing.

Next passing we set upon our work.   One of the housed ones came seemingly to enjoy the view, poor workless creature.   We kept  apart to guard its presence.   We observed that  its view included us and our task.   Our wings enhanced the place with the joyous buzz of work.   Our workers would gladly share our music with one of another kind.   We provided the swirling movement, purple stars were standing tall  and vibrations of our flight joined the life-giver's warmth and the softening's breeze.   A fine concert we all made of it, the first of the season.   Our program was the first of the classics,  the stories we would tell at home when darkness approached.   New songs and compositions were in the works,  even the housed ones could appreciate them.