First, a confession: I have two really big projects that I'm working on right now, so I won't be posting quite as regularly for the next month or two.  Fear not, though, I have exciting things on the horizon, though, including a trip to the UK and Ireland and a new ebook all within the next few months!

I have been busy keeping up with my Project365, too.  What a joy it is! And right now I find myself in the role of documentarian -- watching through my lens each day as Spring returns to Sacramento.  By the way, if you ever decide to come my direction, this is the time to do it.  Sacramento is gorgeous in late February, March, and early April.  The fruit trees are blooming.  The flowers are blooming.  Frankly most every blooming thing is starting to bloom!  We have a huge oak tree in our yard with swelling buds -- I predict baby leaves within the next ten days.

And then there are the birds... Sacramento is on the Pacific Flyway, and we get migratory birds from all over the Northwest and up into Canada.  I've seen several big Vs of Canadian Geese winging their way across the skies.  And our yard has been full of visiting birds large and small.

I know many of you are still buried under snowdrifts.  Having lived in Minnesota for a decade, I remember those days well.  But know that Spring is coming to you, too (and we'll be well into summer before you know it).  Here's a little peek into spring for you all near and far...

To Spring

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

-- William Blake (1783)