| Begins |
[Mar. 22nd, 2009|11:08 pm]
rejectomorph
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Spring's first day brought mounds of white clouds and a pair of chattering blue jays who have nested in the bush by the corner of the house. They will cadge the food I put out for the feral cats and bathe in the water bowl. Their offspring will wake me early in the morning with loud cheeps of hunger. I guess it's worth a bit of cat food to keep their noise brief. The cats probably won't agree.
I heard coyotes yipping and howling again a while ago. They grow bold. For a few years I seldom heard them. I blame the recession for their return. No longer able to dine on the scraps left in the woods by wasteful yuppie hikers and campers, they are moving back into the town to raid yards where pet food (or pets) may be left out. My yard is fenced, but the fence has fallen so many times that it's now as gapped as an old wino's teeth. I expect to look out one night and see glowing, canine eyes looking back at me. I hope the feral cats are quick at climbing the trees.
Though this afternoon was chilly and swept by gusts of wind, tomorrow will be warmer and the air will probably grow calm. Azaleas have bloomed, and I expect to catch the scent of gardenias any day now. The bones of the oaks will soon be fully clothed, and shade will fall across the lawn. There will be time to sit on the porch and wait for darkness while listening to the frogs croak and the crickets chirp, and inhaling the fragrance of flowers and new growth. There will, alas, be pollen, and much sneezing. Ah, spring, all softness, sweetness, and snot!
Slightly Premature Sunday Verse
Second April
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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