Even this morning’s rain cannot dull the bird song rising from the strip of woods shielding the stream. It hovers above the trees and arrives across the 200 yards of the field in threads and slivers of specific calls. The dogs huddle in the mist like orphans from a Victorian melodrama. They are waiting to move, but I want another 30 seconds, another minute, just to listen to the end of winter. The rain is cold, but it no longer has the power to make me curse it. I could listen to this chorus every day of my life and never grow weary.
