Thursday, May 03, 2012
The young year's sun is stark and pale. Menacing and actual as inevitable disaster. But a thing distant enough that panic may be forestalled. For a time.
These are today the sounds that buoy you out of your nascent slumber, that lift you into awareness: the hushed lament of the wind in the boughs of Douglas-fir and hemlock; blithe, frolicking songs of warblers. You will live within that spectrum. As have I.
In the sunlight, dreaming of how conversations might go. Or what if I had given her a book? Or what if he were to ask me something at a time when I could answer?
Silly thoughts, those. Across the river, the golden promise of spring enlightens the crowns of the West Hills.
Home for now. I'll be back, my young friend. For a little while. And if, in your glorious future, you remember a dim, warm shadow that loved you as you slept, it is more than enough.