Listening to Nicolas Simion’s jazz in Cologne, I felt an unexpectedly rush of joy.
Yesterday, walking with Blue through meadows thick with the yellow flowers of arrowleaf balsamroot, I plucked a couple of juicy three-toothed leaves of sage, pressed them between my fingers and brought them to my nose. The scent was a sharp as the yellow of the flowers. Standing there in the morning quiet, I heard the liquid call of a black-headed grosbeak, and then the sound of water burbling up out of a pipe or spring. As I listened, the sound came again, and then again. I looked up and found two black birds above me on a branch. One of them gurgled, just like water, and I was filled with joy again.