|red maple buds, mid-March 2012|
Photo by J. Harrington
Unlike the topic of whether I'm seeing green or not, there's no question whatsoever in my mind that ducks moving North have joined the larger waterfowl (swans and geese) on the open waters of the Sunrise River pools. I didn't slow the Jeep down enough to make a positive identification on the species, but there were large splashes of white, highlighted by black, paddling around. My suspicions are I saw mergansers, bufflehead and / or goldeneyes.
|forced forsythia, late March 2014|
Photo by J. Harrington
Finally, for today, I'm pleased to report the bird houses are now cleaned out. Since a bluebird was reported about 30 miles south of here this week, it's past time that the houses are now ready to await this year's occupants. One other sign of readiness for seasonal changes is that there are finally some forsythia branches in a vase on the dining table, although, to be honest, they're the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of branch bunches. So, now we get to look forward to weather that is actually warm, instead of just warmer, and to watch the outside forsythia bushes eventually burst buds, put out leaves and blossom, unless, of course, a late frost does them in. If early birds get the worms, you'd think life would be less hazardous for early bloomers, wouldn't you?
Forced Bloom1. Such pleasure one needs to make for oneself. She has snipped the paltry forsythia to force the bloom, has cut each stem on the slant and sprinkled brown sugar in a vase, so the wintered reeds will take their water. It hurts her to do this but she does it. When are we most ourselves, and when the least? Last night, the man in the recessed doorway, homeless or searching for something, or sought— all he needed was one hand and quiet. The city around him was one small room. He leaned into the dark portal, gray shade in a door, a shadow of himself. His eyes were closed. His rhythm became him. So we have shut our eyes, as dead or as other, and held the thought of another whose pleasure is need, face over a face ... 2. It hurts her to use her hands, to hold a cup or bud or touch a thing. The doctors have turned her burning hands in their hands. The tests have shown a problem, but no cause, a neuropathology of mere touch. We have all made love in the dark, small room of such need, without shame, to our comfort, our compulsion. I know I have. She has. We have held or helped each other, sometimes watching from the doorway of a warm house where candletips of new growth light the walls, the city in likeness beyond, our hands on the swollen damp branch or bud or cup. Sometimes we are most ourselves when we are least, or hurt, or lost, face over a face—. You have, too. It’s your secret, your delight. You smell the wild scent all day on your hand.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.