Sometimes it seems this not quite winter not quite spring will never end. But this morning the air is crisp, the sky is clear and the sun is warm on my back. Snow tracks lined with dark shadows; a horizon so wide it reaches into forever; and the sky—that prairie sky; the sense that anything and everything is possible.
a geometry of geese
aslant the sun
Das Reingold today—on my radio Albrecht pursues Rhine maidens. Outside, in a narrow patch of open water, a goldeneye preens, displays, fails to mount his hen. As I uncap my thermos, a truck hurtles onto thin ice, heading for fishing huts. Inside my car, Wotan and the gods cross the rainbow bridge to Valhalla.
an osprey nests
on the pylon
When I was a child, I couldn’t resist railroad ditches. Thin ice; water deeper than my boots; that shiver as a train swept past. Now, I listen for their sounds.
of the ditch…
When I was a child, I waited for the first fireflies. Trapped in jars—their lights flashing, hidden under my bedclothes. There aren’t many fireflies this far north. I watch for other signs of spring. Fresh spinach from the fall seeding, new shoots from tulip bulbs; the language of clouds.
the quiet space
in a robin’s call