There is this tiny patch of key lime hued leaves just outside my bedroom window.  The leaves belong to a tree that is barren except for this small bounty – this cluster of life.  Not one other branch has leaves that are not dried from autumn, or bare from winter, and I wonder as I watch the leaves jiggle, rather dance, at the mystery of life, why these leaves were in a hurry when all the other leaves remain hidden somewhere inside the deadened winter branches.  I understand.  I mean look all around us.  Magic is everywhere, fecund in even the most sterile moments, so it isn’t the magic of life that has me wondering but rather the pace, why one bunch of leaves blossoms early and others blossom late.