Yesterday the dog and I walked atop the appropriately named Beech Hill to look at (and, in the dog’s case, sniff) newly unwrapped beech leaves. Did you know that when they first emerge from the bud scales that protected them all winter, beech leaves are covered with a layer of fine white down?

In his infamous rant against institutional Christianity, Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed “the word Miracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression; it is Monster. It is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain.” What sort of Miracle huddled cramped all winter and is now newly unwrapped; what sort of Design crafted the crinkles that channel spring rains from fresh green flesh?

Where these days in your neck of the woods are the UnWrapped Wonders, and why aren’t you now standing rapt before them?