Friday, April 9, 2021

Winter to Spring

 What were the biggest piles of snow are dirty lumps of ice. Yellow daffodils shine. 

In a doctor's waiting room sisters fought over who would care for their father, frail and forgetful in a wheelchair. Metamorphic rocks have wavy stripes that mimic the waves that wash over them. 

A jaw abscess is painful. I know where there is a field of tiny blue flowers, Siberian squill.

Mallards are back at the pond. 

Saturday, April 3, 2021


 I walk in the morning. Not far. Not fast. Well, sometimes I shuffle quickly, almost a jog. Not often.

Sometimes I walk around a pond. The ice went out last week, or maybe the week before. People skate on the pond in the winter and ducks swim there in the summer. There are cattails, redwing blackbirds, and koi fish. I have not seen turtles. Some years there is an osprey. The ducks are mallards, usually, but last fall there were hooded mergansers. After the ice goes out, after the ground warms up, then the koi bubble up out of the mud, in the shallows, among the cattails. That hasn't happened yet, this year. Soon. 

Sometimes I walk on an outdoor track, round and round. I watch the sky turn colors as the sun rises. I listen to my favorite podcast, physicists and comedians. I see the sunlight hit the treetops. The light covers the earth as the sun seems to rise in the sky. It doesn't move though, does it? ... I just checked and it does, actually. The sun rotates and revolves. Our whole solar system is on the move. Just like me.