Have you noticed that a lot of birds don't seem to migrate anymore? I recovered a starling this morning from the yard, not taking the migratory path and the cold just got too much, It takes time and energy to fly south and enjoy the winter, so if there is enough food, they may stay. I have had robins all winter, but, yesterday it got cold. These poor little guys are all gathered together in the freezing temperatures. I find that they hide in the cedar trees, but, come out when it is sunshiney. The red-breasted robins against the variations of red-brick with just enough white snow and green bough to frame it.

At least they are color coordinated, yes?

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My phone died last night. Wait. It did not die, it merely went to sleep for hours and hours and hours. It was in overheat mode. I say this not for pity, but to establish the fact that I didn't have a phone with me this morning. It was the very same look today, the down of their chest, all puffed up, aimed at keeping them warm. The exception is that this was from a couple of years ago. Same location and the abundance of feathered friends.

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I have a weakness for barnwood and fencepost, and I don't even live in the country. It was raining on top of the snow, making it disappear into the sunset.

You’ve become a part of each other
Pole in the hole, top, and bottom
Faithfully committed
To making boundries
For another

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I listen to the symphony that runs through my head as I imagine the poetic beauty of the rose. Something about roses... One flower that is not boasting when it proclaims itself queen. Most enchanting, even if they can be fussy divas. A little bit on the irresistible side. So tell me, do! Of all the flowers, which are some of your favorites? I know I have more than one, do you?

My friend Chris: You have a symphony in your head? I just have the Beatles in mine. Me: Yes, truly. Haydn Symphony No. 34 in d minor... tomorrow, perhaps a little Robert Palmer. We'll see.

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Perfectly beautiful isn't necessarily perfect and has nothing to do with accepting imperfection. Perhaps imperfection is the point.

We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery - Dejan Stojanovic

All I have are my words, armed in my mind, written in pen, stand by stand. Oh, yes. Still by hand. It has a different feel. Altered not by keys, backspace, and delete, I write, erase, tear it to pieces and start all over again. And again.

It’s my way. I walk out to the deep end of the page and dive right in.

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There were birds of a feather, flocked together, flowers and snow, although, do they really don't go, do they? For today they do, there is no rule, just you and I, making it up as we go along. And just like that, this post is done. Come back tomorrow and we'll do it again. There is #alwaysaflower to be had. You heard it here first.

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The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost