Cuter than a Can of Spam

And tastier to boot, is my parent's little Vintage Cardinal trailer on it's maiden voyage through the redwoods of the north.  We called it home base while we traversed forest and fields, chattering and clucking for hours, sitting in quiet contemplation.

Mug after mug of piping coffee, steam rising up to greet the dawn song of the birds.  Hands full with crow feathers, jay feathers, and one small pup who could melt the heart of the hardest stone.

Raccoons scuttling in as soon as Mars shone bright, leaving prints of ash and mud for us to guess their sizes.  Creatures with a multitude of legs and creatures with none, joining us for first meals of the day.

And the small things, the minuscule, the detritus, the ephemeral bits of moss and the tiny legs of lichen, we took them all in.

And the light, oh that light...

Woods and water, these things fill my cup to overflowing.  And so I drink deep, ducking my head low to catch the spill and lap up all that goodness.