The weather was perfect. The temperature hovered at seventy- two and the sun peeked from behind the wispy clouds. As I said, perfect.

I stopped at a clover patch to rest and prowl around the ground to find what I could find.

I leaned close to breathe in the scent of the earth in its renewed spring best. A harsh tapping at my shoulder snapping me from my basking.

I frowned as I turned and saw a squat impish man dressed from head to toe in his greenish best, shillelagh in hand and pointed rather menacingly at my head, “What are you doing, Lass?” He questioned me.

Though I was in prone position I had no trouble gathering my pride, for even those of us with a drop of Irish blood, on St. Patrick’s Day feel the full power that drop brings, “Who’s asking?”

His eyes smiled and he spoke,”May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, The foresight to know where you are going, And the insight to know when you have gone too far.â€?

And with a shillelagh to the head, the day went dark.