what makes you think I'm afraid of a little thunder?
Photo by J. Harrington
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At least we didn't get the five inches or so that flooded several counties South of us, but the "wet spot" in the back yard is once again showing water. It had shrunk to a layer of mud during the past few weeks. The low spot in the driveway is once again a puddle. Birds frequently use it to take a bath. I suspect, from the news and weather reports this morning, the trout streams we were planning on fishing thus week may not be in prime condition, so we'll save them for another time.
a bluebird egg in an abandoned nest
Photo by J. Harrington
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Before the storms arrive last night, I saw what I think was a bluebird perched on top of the reinstalled bluebird house. It may be that the plan to provide a potential home for a second brood this Summer might pay off. Once before we managed a picture of a bluebird egg that had failed to hatch, so we have a decent idea of what bluebird eggs look like. I'll slog out this afternoon and report back tomorrow if the hordes of deer flies don't grab me and drag me off into the woods.
We hope you remain warm, dry, and virus-free and that your house isn't in one of the recently identified flood-prone areas that our new, more volatile weather patterns are helping us discover.
Egg
By Brian Swann
We are in the position of defining myth by the shape of its absence.
-Sean Kane, Wisdom of the Mythtellers
The bluebird's cold mistimed eggfetched up from the one-leggedbox after the pair had left forpoints south & unknown (never,as it turned out, to return) Irenested in the half-geode bythe windowsill where it gleamed&, months becoming years, seemedabout to last forever, grow moreconsistent with itself, holding its pureblue firmament up over what by nowwas nothing, till one January day, snowmelting to a fast flood,I blew it softly onto my palm so I couldhold its cerulean up against new sky,home against home, where it layweightless & delicate as the Xmas ornamentwe'd just put away, but when I wentto roll it gently back onto its bed,& leave it there, I saw a thread,a crack, another, watched it sink inslowly on itself, shard on shard collapsingfrom my touch & breath, relaxinginto the shape of its absence
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