Because the day was warm yesterday, Sluggo was temperamental and didn't allow me to post an entry, but I did get it written, and managed to save it to the clipboard before the inevitable crash. I failed to post it again a couple of hours ago, and it has taken quite a while to catch up on my reading, so I'm just going to tack it onto the end of this post -- without re-reading it, since that would inevitably lead to (shudder) editing.
Last Night's Delayed Entry:
I'm picturing the river running through the canyon. These warm days must have begun melting the abundant accumulation of snow which blankets the high mountains, and the frigid water will be flowing swiftly, gathering winter's detritus of leaf and twig and branch, washing the riverbanks clean, sending all swirling into the lake. I'm picturing the water darkling with starlight, the fish leaping into air still evening warm, and plunging back into cool depths full of long-passed storms. The mile to the river is filled with growing, the soft soil and matted roots of new grass gradually releasing hoarded heat for the breeze to carry, the brush rustling with nocturnal beasts, hawks like swift, disembodied shadows surveying the dark ground, the owls perched on pine branches, the deer grazing quiet glades. I sense all the gathered night and its unseen life as clearly as I see bright Venus, the lamp of approaching spring.