Tenderness is not a feeling I associate with winter.  Our wood fires hammer cold toward the edges of our cabin while we stand in the center near the hot orange glow.  Glum is a word I would use to describe my mood on Saturday morning, sipping coffee in front of a window that overlooks our picnic area.  Last week ten inches of rain stole the small amount light that filters through our oaks in January.

I peered from through these thoughts at barely perceptible motions, a flock descended to our picnic area’s edge.  My heart swelled with tenderness at the sight of wild pigeons pecking seeds parted from oaks by the rains.  The plump pale ring-necked birds arrive each year at this time, foretelling spring.