I am sitting alone on soft grass in a natural area, amidst patches of lingering snow with the sun rising past the hill behind me. The air is still and clear. There is no movement at all. Sunlight covers everything outside the shade where I sit. I don’t feel like moving, after my walk to this stop spot. Gray rugged mountains dotted with evergreen rise before me, with no road between us, though an old barb wire fence separates me from the next field. The patches of white snow lie quietly, waiting to melt in between dead grass stems tan and brown and dry white sage. Life is here, in the water from the melting snow, in the earth, the soil, the trees, the rocks, the sun, in the patches. Away from the news, away from the strife, out here, always going on, is life. Now I am moving, walking on and find myself in the midst of a herd of deer, moving, grazing, nibbling, staring at me, only mildly disturbed by my presence. Living life in the patches.