Two days before my friend from England arrives, my inner voice sounds like a tour guide: Those are flickers. Hear how they croon their name?
April 2012
Sunday April 29, 2012
Fragments of sky are still visible behind the haze of new leaves. The cattails are shedding; tufts of down drift by. That Sunday silence.
Saturday April 28, 2012
Cold and overcast. Up above the blossoming hawthorn, three crows walk back and forth on the forest floor as if searching for a lost trinket.
Friday April 27, 2012
The sun clears the ridge and disappears behind a dark lid of clouds. The wind which a moment before felt envigorating is now simply cold.
Thursday April 26, 2012
Watched by a chipmunk at the end of the stone wall, I hold a mouthful of coffee in my cheeks, do my best to look as if I know how to live.
Wednesday April 25, 2012
Sun strikes the top of the tulip tree—half-grown leaves vibrating in the wind. In the road, the severed hindquarters of a rabbit.
Tuesday April 24, 2012
Bright and windy. A towhee flies in and out of a multiflora rose bush seemingly without a care, as if it weren’t studded with sharp hooks.
Monday April 23, 2012
Snow falling faster than it can melt. Unto every one that hath shall be given, says the sky: hawthorn and bridal wreath now twice as white.
Sunday April 22, 2012
Church bells from town swell and fade as the wind eddies—some old hymn on the carillon. A black-and-white warbler’s breathy two-note call.
Saturday April 21, 2012
A metallic green jumping spider, moving slowly in the morning cool, climbs from my green shirt sleeve to the green spine of my book.