The baby hummingbird in the nest in the dogwood last spring. Small as the tip of a human pinky finger. Purplish pinkish and making a start at becoming iridescent. Little stubby beak, almost like any other bird who doesn’t need a needle-straw to feed.

Its mother very nearby, applying her own needle-straw to some blossom, taking in the sweet liquid, holding it under her tongue like a tincture for the flight back home, putting her needle in the baby beak and releasing the nourishment.

At least I imagine that’s how it went. I didn’t see it. Hopefully nobody else did either. Neither human nor cat nor hawk nor anyone who might think them delicious, or fascinating, or have any reason to get too close.

A miracle that tiny warrants all the air it can breathe. A giant perimeter of reference, of safety.

I dreamt I wrote a novel. I’m remembering it now. It just started coming out. I didn’t see what was on the pages but I remember the feel of it. Realizing I could actually build it, one page, two pages at a time.

A dream that important needs space to unfurl. I take two, three respectful steps back and ask for the space in my waking life to attend to it or real, when the time Is right. Maybe in the spring when the baby hummingbirds begin to be born, begin to hum …

I felt the sun on my face but what I didn’t see was the quite visible ray extending through the solar system to reach me in particular. I didn’t see that I was one of her children, her ray a needle-straw, beaming life into my mouth, down my gullet and into my body, charging and nourishing every cell. I didn’t – I don’t – see this happening with every breath of oxygen gifted to me by trees.

I don’t see the earth reaching upward, offering warmth through the soles of my feet, claiming me as hers, telling me in each moment that I do, in fact, belong.