In SE Pennsylvania, March should be called the water month. It is flowing off the hills and gathering in the low spots. It is filling streams. Wetlands are flush with it. Under late winter’s angled sun, not quite at Spring’s zenith but trying, all that water seems more welcoming, ready to burst with life. Before the thin gray sheet of clouds came gliding across, this morning’s blue sky looked like a new color, its patina so fresh and warm. A dozen or more Red Wing Blackbirds are roosting and feeding near us, full of their buzzing croak-song. Cardinals and early robins are staking out territories, their whistles sharp as pipes. It is a good day to be out. The dogs’ eyes are burning with the ecstasy of running. I will live forever, I think, if mornings can bring such refrains.
© Mike Wall
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