There is an elderly couple on a bench across from me throwing handfuls of feed onto the path, and grabbing everyone's attention.
The afternoon March 1st sunshine is mottled by the copious greenery overhead, yet still pleasantly warm on my face though the air is cool enough that my wool coat is not uncomfortable.
A white gull swoops in from the west to get in on the action, the ducks grumble and edge aside reluctantly. And then another, possibly its mate, and everybody reshuffles their positions.
A couple of black crows prance nervously nearby, as though they know they're not welcome, or the scne is just to competitive for them.
The water feature directly in front of me, yet not too near to enjoy its full grandeur, throws hundreds of gallons of water forty feet into the air out of twenty or so jets, that coming crashing down in a primal rhythm that feels like Gaea's lullaby.
This is WoodLake, and the first time I have stopped to sit in the afternoon sun all winter, my first winter here, in this lovely park-like surrounding, my home.
As I walk back to my condo, the sound of mourning doves brings back that plaintive feeling of aloneness that is not lonely, of being one in a great big world, and sings to me that this is a good thing, right and true. And that for now, this is my choice.