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Thursday, March 3, 2005 |
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Bright. Not a shred of snow remains today. I prepare for a trudge on the hill. A trudge. I strive to obey my conscious mind over the protests of my inner brat. I recognize these deep early sleeps as my heart not beating (dreams: freeways, traffic jams). After I walk, I am alert and productive late into the night. I must remember this. Oxygen is sort of important. I lost these notes from Tuesday. This was my March 1st meander, a brief but encouraging stroll, written up just before sleep: MARCH ONE--and spring's first moth beats itself to tatters on this upstairs window, mad for my reading lamp. This evening I walked "inland"--away from the highway, east toward the mountains. I observed the neighboring cottonwoods. I found thin smears of balsam protecting the leaf buds and my heart sang. Hawks mated in their high mess of a nest in the top of a cottonwood that stands across the creek. I heard cries. The dogs ran too far away, anticipating my route, thinking me capable of that much ambition. So far separated from them at dusk, I felt a pang lion fear I haven't had before. Winter was sweeping up the crumbs of itself, sky all hues of gray, faceted in fierce knife-edged lenticulars. And adrift lower down before it the ridiculous poofs of spring, soft and moist and sherbet-colored, with generously frayed dissolving margins. It's late. The rain comes down softly. The purr of the March lion. 10:16:54 AM  comment []
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