Sunday

The Western Meadowlark has my favorite call. If you're reading this you can certainly find it online. Its music tells Montana that spring has sprung and has been doing so now for almost a month (insert your favorite erudite spring poetry reference here) . The one outside presently is competing with the creek to saturate the air with peace if not quiet. Remind me again why I should ever complain about my life at this juncture? Warm, loved, fed, great coffee at hand and prospects for a succcessful week are good. For now, lets not consider the dog who has been up with GI problems half the night, the ex-spouse who somehow continues to affect me through my kids and the fact that shortly I will head in to the hospital to perform a not-so-fun case on a beautiful Sunday morning. These events are finite. The bird's song enduring.