Today is the second day running with seasonal temps here on the rim and everyone is taking advantage of it. On my drive to get stamps this morning there were guys in short sleeves and yesterday I saw a girl of about 10 running pellmell down her family's very long driveway in baggy red shorts, her very white legs kicking behind her. I've got sheets and blankets hanging out to catch as much of the fresh air as they can to keep it snug in its fibers so as we sleep in them we breath it all in. Yesterday we took a walk on the adjacent trail with the littlest ones who have never set foot on it before and the looks on their faces, wide grins with their tongues out and the eldest one panting, made our hearts sing. In the evening we met my sister-in-law for beer and patty melts at one of the local watering holes and listened to a fellow on acoustic guitar covering the Dead and the Allmans and Johnny Cash. We dropped $10 in his tip jar and felt right in the world. Now today I have just walked in from a long walk with the youngest and spriest of our beasts. It was an odd thing, wearing a tee shirt while tramping through the woods stepping on the patches of ice and snow to keep my feet from burying in the mud, the musky smell of wet hay leaving me intoxicated. And then to sit down to write this, and the below--the song that converted me to punk--suddenly playing on the local radio station. Such a day is as perfect as can be, the sort one hopes, if there is a heaven, that can be lived over and over and over.