Happy birthday, Dad

You may not be here to receive a hug or a card or a novel. But there are so many places I find you still.

In footsteps about to sound against the slates under the great elm. In shapes that morph and meld under my lids when I go to sleep. In highly expected April snow. In Balthasar's whiskers when he snoozes in the sun. In the tug of a river swirl.

And most certainly in the blue of Magnus' eyes.