Outside is moss, tiny young white pine seedlings, warm air breathing down the mountain slope, blowing blood warm into all life vessels tethered to the riverbank, bobbing in the icey whacks. Fresh British soldiers marching down the log, sweet sweet trailing arbutus down clinging to the earth below their feet. (view here: at the Toad Hall studio )
Mourning dove calls, calls; a woodpecker, a crow.
Late in the evening rain falls.
The workshop smells of old hope, and dreams, sawdust. Hot wind fills house, thawing desires. A single yellow forsythia bloogy fragile: all there is.

Upon second inspection dozens of white arbutus waxiness are found, spilling down the hillside.

When I went to rest my elbows on the rail, there were rubbery numb blobs there instead of a bone, that didn't belong to me; severe thunderstorm warning, daffodil yellows and a pink haze of new buds over trees, piles of spent flares from wreck on the curving mountain and the charred remains of Ohio woman's 4th house. Wind blow.