According to Poets.org, this is the twentieth National Poetry Month. It's also the month that marks twenty-five years since D. and I said "I do" in a little white school house with a score or so witnesses. And it's the ten year anniversary of my mother's death.
I love that the natural world doesn't seem to know or care, but just marks this April as it does most Aprils in Sonoma County; the daffodils are wilting, the poppies are making their showy orange appearance, and the sun is up late enough to allow for a walk after work.
This April, we have four fat chickens supplying us with eggs and empty but colorful bee hives awaiting whatever swarm or split luck (and connecting to beekeepers, and a swamp trap in a tree) might bring to me. Here are chicken butts with one alert girl posing for the camera:
D. and I went for a drive up the coast on Easter Monday, and had a great time just hanging out together in beautiful northern California. This is a shot from the ride back:
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