spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
whistles far and wee
My granddaughter arrived from Florida at the end of last week, shortly after the recent rains. Rising waters left local roads impassable; detours were devised to outwit the deluge. The river beat against the bridge pylons, found them firm, and abruptly descended down the gorge in torrents.
Meantime the skies had cleared; buds began to unfold on the tips of the supple branches; peepers piped their yearly evening performances.
Yesterday we raked the yard, pulling thick blankets of brown leaves off the flower beds, exposing the sharp green shoots that had pushed up silently through the soil below.
Afterwards, my son-in-law played with my granddaughter in the back yard. The two kicked a soccer ball back and forth while our little white terrier raced to block the shots, butting the ball with her tiny head and dribbling it in circles, valiantly circumventing the opposition.
I sat on a chair in the shade of the garage to watch the performance. Across the street, high above our neighbor’s white clapboard house, wispy branches of the tall white pines danced in the breeze.
No one can see the wind, of course; we can only witness its effects.
I pushed back in my chair, closed my eyes, felt the warm spring air on my face. A few soft notes drifted in.
Somewhere Cummings’ little lame balloonman was whistling far and wee.