So much will change in four days.  Last Thursday Waylon and I woke early in my parents’ house, and the four of us–Nana, Gramps, Mama and babe–drove to the airport and flew off to Chicago.  As we made our way west for one of my best friend’s wedding, Papa stayed home and tended the garden, moved the sheep on pasture, and brought spring greens and starts to the Farmers Market.

When we left, leaves were just beginning to explode from the tips of branches.

Clouds drenched the ground and hovered over Vermont while we celebrated in warm Illinois sunshine.  By the time we flew home, the eastern landscape had transformed again: forests shifting from translucent green hues to thick dense foliage.  A northern jungle, I can almost drink the maple leaves that pour and open all around.  After this long winter, even the trees are calling out in song.

Waylon and I took a day to recover from the travel, though we’re both still a bit tired.  It’s good to travel, to reunite with friends, to celebrate love.  And it’s good to come home, to walk the familiar path to the yurt door, to look west to the mountains and watch wisps of clouds rise after a rain, to be wrapped up in Edge’s hug, to greet the dogs–bodies wiggling and tails wagging–and after four days in the city, to ground myself in the quiet of this hillside farm.