Every spring there are these fresh, hyacinth-tipped days, always beckoning me forward toward joy -- anticipated delights -- like the sounds of a million winter-hard hibernations awakening with delighted yawns and laughing trills, or of energies breaking free in bursts of color waiting to dazzle --of Life yearning to Be.
I know those things are outside -- outside right this very second within the yellow sun-slant of the afternoon and the boisterously happy barking of the dog. She tracks birth-prints with oxymoronic serious abandon -- innocent in her hapless hunting.
But I am still tired, a stretched thin tired. I saw the nest you see and I thought, oh, well...it will pass...I should not make too much of it. I am probably being too harsh. It was a stupid mistake, but I was tired;last year was hard and the winter long and barren. And of course, there's the part about peace and not being judgmental. Sad justifications all: Now the snake is loose and its plots are hatched, and for people I love...there will be hell to pay. Spring will have to wait.
