The last week has been beautiful--nights that dip into the 50s and breezy days peaking in the 70s. My kind of weather to be out, even if out is only as far as the bench on the patio. I can make myself quite a comfortable nest there, leg propped on a stack of pillows, everything I might need within arm's reach. I sit and watch the woods.
The birds are again active. Titmice, chickadees and nuthatches empty the nearby feeders. A catbird calls, unseen, from the still very leafy woods. A Black-throated green warbler is feeding in the hickory tree above me. Carolina wrens glean insects from the cobwebs on the patio furniture. And a cricket sings loudly from behind the stone step.
It's easy to get "lost" in these woods, to let your mind wander off and recall the many treasures hidden within. The screech owl that often rested here several years ago and the barred owl that watched me from a branch a few feet away last spring.
This summer it was the Wood Thrush, whose clear, melodious calls lured me each evening to the woods' edge hoping to catch a glimpse. For weeks, the woods resounded with the call of the bird never seen. Her presence was a special gift to me, if only in song.
This afternoon, she visited again. I helped her get back on her feet. 
She is helping me get back on mine, too.
