Winds, small or large but steady, have blown morning into afternoon into evening here in this Bethel Valley.  Young leaves quake and shimmer, turning this way then that into their greenery.  And the butterflies!  Twenty or thirty yellow monarchs surround the barn, a jeweled revelry.  The party is on: all the birds of the neighborhood have been invited to fly about and sing, the weeks-old calves are frisking, young rabbits are on the move and everything that can bloom is doing just that. This is about as far from the world of human-made news a world could be and I have to stop and wonder which is real.  Maybe I've entered some sort of dreamtime, this greentime.  I could easily think to be sleepwalking but the winds are brisk and the chill of them keep waking me up, insisting, it would seem, that the green world is still the real world.  Who knows?  Not me, certainly not me.