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Tuesday, March 8, 2005 |
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I wasn't kidding. We ate our cheese and bread and olives, and drank our water. We looked closely at the lichened sides of our favorite rock for a very long time, and traced the gray outlines of long-dead mosses. On the way there, I'd heard cries and turned to watch as a hovering hawk collided several times with his perched mate at the top of a cottonwood. On the way back I visited with a lark, its bright yellow vest embroidered with a broad black vee, as it twitched on the swaying tip of a juniper. We were surprised to find buttercups, small yellow daisies, starry bellyflowers, and tiny yarrows already blossoming full away.  Discouraging to see so much exposed soil on the sunward slopes of the mountaintops:  We discerned the house and outbuildings of a third visible neighbor we hadn't spotted on earlier excursions, in the dim dell:  1:00:09 PM  comment []
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A March Muse Fond as we are of the comfort of our homes we know they're only pushings-outward of our skins, wall-hardened exoskeletons, and count in no way as the World. We know how the dry brome compresses underfoot, and we still can hear the taunts of the kingfisher haunting the distant pond on vivid mornings. The draft through the window crack reminds us of the blue universe that lies without, and the dual boons of the walking-stick and steep stride. Where then do we ramble of a sunny Tuesday with our olives and our cheeses and our round loaves of sour bread, and our folding blades? Shall we creep up on the longeared owl who naps clinging to the fallen post? Reexamine the lichened rock, with its topknot, that lies forever squinting at the watercolored sky? Perhaps if we could climb the highest ridge and stand and summon there with all our might the bitter north would condescend, redescend, send on the sleepy blessing of its confining ice and let us grope overwarmed about our dim close rooms a little longer. 10:29:26 AM comment []
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