There are little frogs here in ponds, swamps, and wetlands that we simply call peepers. Usually somewhere in the end of February, they begin their love songs - eepcreepeepcreekcreepeepeepcreepcreekeepeepeep At first, it's only a few chirpy voices, and not all the time. If it gets cold again, they lay low, but as it warms and the daylight lengthens, a few voices become tens of thousands and they sing around the clock.
So I was in the barn about 8:15, being serenaded by all these little frogs and listening to the bunnies crunching their pellets. The moonlight shone through the window. And I realized that I could smell, so I breathed in the hay and manure aromas, and the hand lotion that Sweetie bought me in January.
The babies were three weeks old Saturday.
There were terrible storms all around us today, but nothing 'cept wind and a little rain here.
The sun came out. It was fabulous.
Oh, and we have a pussy willow tree! The ice broke this branch not entirely off but the grey fuzzies sprouted anyway. I haven't seen a wild pussy willow, or wussy pillow, in decades.
And the third and final free scarf pattern is in process.
I'm relatively happy.
