I should have joined Norm Minas playing along the Kankakee River yesterday. Instead I settle for these musings.
This was in my box this morning:
Grimy snowbanks, looking old and weary, release rivulets of runoff into the river as they relinquish their reign over the landscape.
Rusty remnants of last years grasses rustle in a restless breeze.
Here and there, green shoulders through sepia tinged undergrowth
Glorious now - cursed later, glistening, black mud sucks at my boots, a welcome relief from the past season's crunchy snow.
As I sit silently on a log basking in the warmth of the noontime sun, I close my eyes to enjoy the hopeful songs of multiple birds seeking romance.
Upon reflection of the diversity and plenty of the morning's catch, yes, the promise of the coming spring is upon us.
The only thing I quibble with his the birds. I think they are looking for something more basic than romance, say old-fashioned, preserve-the-species sex.
Or maybe that is just me.