PAUL CHRISTENSEN

The hills have turned so green it almost seems the world could melt into an emerald blaze, a conflagration of jewels and diamond-crusted creeks. The birds are celebrating some mysterious feast day above me, chanting out hymns and pagan prayers to the rapturous clouds. The nests are filled, the osprey tower has a new resident in its aerie, with two slender heads raised up to gobble whatever provender may have been found in the nearby swamps. Everyone's hungry, eager, panting w