It is hard not to think of church this morning. In every rivulet on the meadow, backlit skunk cabbage flowers glow like yellow sanctuary lights. Exploding leaf pods of cottonwoods fill the air with balsam incense. Small ponds capture stain glass images of the Mt. Roberts’ ridge framed by snarled bull pines. There is even a choir lead by robin soloists backed by thrushes and wrens.