This morning I heard that sound again. A soft fluttery knocking, repeatedly.

Sand scraped against the blades of our ice skates as we headed out into the middle of Squibnocket Pond.

I hold the trunk close. Cherry blossoms kiss my face. Dew shines in the grass.

A leisurely breakfast, reading the next chapter in a wonderful book, finishing an oil painting, learning how to do a linoleum cut block print. The joys of an Island winter are endless.

It was just after Christmas a few winters ago, the family still visiting and the kitchen still in holiday mode with tins of cookies and jars of homemade jellies tied with bright ribbons, when I noticed what looked like a piece of black rice on our white windowsill. On closer inspection, I found it to be mouse droppings. I was determined to take care of the matter, while at the same time show respect for the preciousness of life in that mouse.

The rain that fell last week

pounding against the skylights and windows

should have been snow,

whispering the secret of Winter.

But here we are,