March 2020

My seed order has arrived, so on a cold, wet morning I’m not seeing the yard but a fenced and edible paradise—that dream of my youth.

A gray day. My fever broken, I notice that the red maple down along the woods’ edge that had blossomed too soon two weeks ago is bare again.

Through egg-white clouds that bright yolk. The hoarse but exuberant call of a red-winged blackbird echoes off the hillside.