As I sat sipping my latte this morning, it began to snow. Delighted as a child at this development, I decided to go for a ride. It snowed huge flakes the whole time I was on the streetcar. Later, when the train emerged from the dark tunnel, the hillside was covered with snow, fluffy flakes sticking to the firs.
I got off at Tualatin Hills Nature Park and walked down the path into the forest. It had stopped snowing, but the day was dark, with scattered raindrops falling. A doe and her year-old fawn stepped out from the trees to browse on new leaves emerging from dry shoots. The stark white belly of a brown creeper rivaled the face of the black-capped chickadee as the brightest spot in the dark wood. A ruby-crowned kinglet flitted about, acrobatically dangling from the underside of the branches. The marsh wren, with it's striking eye stripe danced along the boggy riverside.
As I admired the chest-jutting song of the winter wren, the sun broke through, sparkling off the new raindrops clinging to the branches. I lowered the hood of my jacket, delightfully drinking it all in.