My mother, in the form of a hummingbird this time, has been hanging around on the deck for an hour (and counting), as I cooked and ate my breakfast on the other side of the windows. She sits on a fir branchlet caught on the rail in yesterday’s winds, occasionally flying to the feeder I filled with fresh syrup yesterday.

It’s a lousy photo (one of those times I miss my real camera), but it’s not about the picture. I am feeling the presence of my mother on this shortest day. Blessings for the Solstice, dear readers.

“This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.” Jan Richardson

Daybreak on the shortest day.