These angel chimes. When I was little, I would watch and listen to the angel chimes while gazing out of the big front window of my grandparents’ house on the bluff. I could see all the lights down in the harbor from there. It was magical.
This tree–a white pine, where I found a bird’s nest, the first Christmas after my mother died (I added the birds). I always have to find a white pine, because we always cut one down from the “back forty” when I was growing up.
This year, I have a fat old white pine. I tried to bring it in, but the water in its bucket had frozen. And so, I patiently wait.