On the wings of hope

We are winging our way to a hopefully peaceful transition in Washington D.C. The hours are ticking along in the last full day of the four year nightmare. Not fast enough for us, believe me.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 
BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

For the Record,
This day came in sunny with clouds. We had a brisk walk in the 
cemetery and have begun watch the build up to the ceremonies tomorrow on the television.

Extra, a happy chickadee with a sunflower kernel.

All hands wary