I am not going to apologize for this weather streak we are having. Sixties, sun, spring flowers popping–it could be gone tomorrow but so could I so I am relishing every moment.
We worked more on the new barn, happy the mud was at bay-rare for this time of year. All around, white spots flecked my fields, some were ruminants chewing cud, others were White Dogs examining far off shadows, sounds and sniffing what the breeze brought in. The breeze–it always takes me back to two things: my sumac huts when I was a child, where I'd nest, listening to the wind outside my protective den-a natural womb for the little land dweller I was; and it reminds me of the days after my father died, as he had become the wind, it was clear to me then and still is. Perhaps even as a child I had an innate sense of the comfort the wind did and would bring me, even though with it also would come the visceral connection to endings-be it a human life or a tree's limbs.
