... loud sings the cuckoo.
or, the woodpecker drills and the wood doves coo. here in southern new england, the first day of the bright half of the year dawned as cold as a dark november morning. if i want to wash my face in the dew this may day, i'll have to wait til it melts.
it doesn't feel like summer, grumbled libby on our way up the hill. it's not the temperature, i said, it's the light. as we watched, the sun rose above the trees, stabbing through just-greening branches in long golden spears, cutting through the crisp air with all the vigor of a young man in his prime.
it sure is bright, said libby.
it sure is.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.