“it is the natural world that has always offered the hint of our single and immense divinity—a million unopened fountains” Mary Oliver.

The donkeys wander in from their one hundred acre rambling and climb the short steps to the covered porch and wait.

Two heads—one gray and one burnt red. And their donkey gaze –soft and unfocused.  Heads droop, and Ziggy’s lower lip hangs loose and quivers.

Winter furred they have not lost their wiry coats yet, and nestled like sleeping fragments lay hundreds of pink petals coating the donkeys’ backs. The petals are the springtime remains of apple blossoms from our old trees.

It’s time to turn in for the donkeys, but for some reason, today, they came up the hill to the house instead of heading down to their stall in the barn.

Finally, I step out onto the porch, and their heads lift.  Their escort has arrived.

Delicate flakes of the palest pink – almost white petals– fall and drape the wooden porch, the steps, and the yard as the donkeys and I make a path down to their safe evening quarters.

Later, when I return to the house, alone, and see those scattered petals I’m reminded how the smallest incident can contain the deepest well of wonder.