Misty sunlight follows a gay foggy forenoon. I travel to Little Beaver – the whistle of meadowlark & harsh scream of a hawk; I thought that now I ought to be sunning myself on the southern side of a home on a hillside, with children of my own and playing in the dry grass. My wife is inside, to be attuned to the season, but perhaps I wouldn’t have my daydreams. Down along the creek, the frogs are busy with their harsh chirping croak that mingles with the roar of the rapids.
The dull noon heat of March beats down on us; we long for water, & animal-like, are angry at the unknown power. The piping frogs in the Marshes & the wild sweep of wind in the woods creates the old world of legendary gods – a world of the joy of living in a season of upshooting sap and quickening blood. The shout of a boy on a windy hillside can conjure this world.