She walks out of doors, head down. Her mind is full of the troubles of the day, and her heart is heavy. And there, at her feet, is a feather. She picks it up, touching the glossy iridescence of its blackness, the zippered fronds of it translucent against the light. It is a gift.
Or she might see a tree encased in ice, the light shining it into a blaze of sparkling glory that would put any Christmas tree to shame.
A spider's web strung with golden droplets. A leaf faded away to its intricate skeleton. A tiny abandoned eggshell of pale blue.
And she lifts her head. For these are gifts of Love.