My morning commute to work is the most pleasurable imaginable: a 10 minute stroll down a walking path built on the shores of Beebe Lake. Yesterday I found a frog so small that my thumb nail would have amply served as a king size bed for him. A moment of meditative observation was required to watch a slug cross the dry gravel walk. The goose shit is something to be reckoned with, but the goslings are charming in their adolescent awkwardness. And meandering paths of this type are the best for eliciting smiles from passerbys.

Perhaps most extraordinary: each morning there has been some class of a heron in a shallow cove staring intently into the water, fishing for his breakfast. Each afternoon on my way home there has been an old man, in the same cove, in the same pose, busy with the same task. An exercise in seeing, and believing in, the mythical.