Tuesday’s dour skies are easier to bear in late March. You know what’s coming. You’ve had a taste of warmth and light.
When a cloud drifts down a ridge line of bare trees in a cold wind, it’s not so bad. There’s a Least Flycatcher just arrived from somewhere south perched on a dry weed and doing figure 8’s and other geometries up and back to grab whatever forsaken insects are out right now.
One minute later two Great Blue Herons move west to east, big as bombers, one with a full gullet. The stream behind me has been stocked with trout for two weeks.
If I stay out here rooted in one spot long enough, the outrages of the day still disappear. I can feel myself grow mild. And for good luck a singular crow comes above us and dips to take a closer look. What grace to be emptied and caught by his eye.
