I looked out my cabin window. The one I painted Victorian red and watched a deer with clam sized clumps of winter hair left somewhere else eating the fresh, green grass as soft as my child's cheek. I'm at the stove where I'm making stovetop rice pudding. As I stir the milk and the rice I watch a robin gather last year's dead grass at the edge of a puddle. She fills her beak and flies away. I keep stirring and suddenly she is back for more. Suddenly this little task has gotten a whole lot more interesting. Somewhere in the yard is the promise of birth. I smile. Now I will share this joy with my daughter.