I sit here watching the brilliant white sheets dance in the wind, illumined by the warm sun until their whiteness blinds you.

Behind them only the bare brown and grey of the early April woods.
Beneath them the grass, still suppressed by Winter's chill, a faint dead green at best.
But I hear the sound of geese, coming home.
The sheets flap a gay reply.
Dancing, twirling, floating, whirling--they scream of life.
They sing an unquenchable song.
They dance and cannot be stilled.
They shout to the world that death is a passing thing.
They are alive, joyful, free.
With a magnificence that is at the same time purely simplistic, they are surrendered to the Spring wind, letting it fill them, and prompt them--and with gladness they follow.
And all this while they are still connected to the line, here on earth. Oh! the wonder of seeing them, freed--and born away on the wind.

I sit here watching the brilliant white sheets dance in the wind. And my heart is dancing, too.