Hope springs new.

Hope is a word I associate with April.  With Easter—life, resurrection, hope.  Promises made good.

And spring.  The other morning, even though it was snowing, I was cheered by a chorus of bird song outside my window.  Robins—big fat robins—covered my poplar tree’s bare branches.  I counted over a dozen.  My neighbour’s tree held at least twenty.  They flew about in groups and puttered in the street like they owned the place.

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