The temperature whistled past my ears on its way down. Harris's Sparrows, which I sometimes hear whistle as they pass through in the spring, magically appeared.

The temperature whistled past my ears on its way down. Harris's Sparrows, which I sometimes hear whistle as they pass through in the spring, magically appeared.

The temperature whistled past my ears on its way down. Harris's Sparrows, which I sometimes hear whistle as they pass through in the spring, magically appeared.

I whistled on behalf of a silent Harris’s Sparrow. As Monty Python's Eric Idle sang, "When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle."

Battered, weary and beautiful. The leaf is a tiny sun illuminating my world.