The morning sky was the sweet milk-pink color of new life, and it cast its warm glow across the snow and every frost-kissed branch tip and blade of dry winter grass. It blushed the lean bodies of the deer that moved through the woods, weaving in and out of the dark trees, like a sacred procession of saints, or specters, the only sound their delicate hooves breaking through the crust of snow, the only hurried motion their white tails flicking their awareness of my presence. But, they did not run, and the Black Dog did not chase them, she simply stood at my side like a good girl. Above, three eagles, a Holy Family, dropped from the rosy branches of the tallest tree, and flew long and low with the current of the river that rolled by us all. The experience was named something like “reverence”.