On the West Wind

Ray Bradbury lived the summer of ‘28 twice–once as himself, and another as Douglas Spaulding in Dandelion Wine.

I’d like to live the summer of ‘25 once. (Or maybe through a few poems, too.)

The morning is fresh and bright here on Long Mountain. Wrenching open the door to greet the sun, I stopped halfway as the wood ducks on the pond looked up in alarm. (We’re still getting used to each other.)

I closed it. They stayed. I came back later.

The concept floats in on the breeze. Summer. And the wish to make it a good one.

First a midwinter’s dream, now it flickers into reality in the lemon sunshine of the last day of February, the vanishes again, pushed aside by the west wind. The bluebirds call with their rich tone, and alight on an apple sapling where there might be an orchard someday.

Something is brewing.

Looking out across the winter-brown grass, I have a flash-forward of a flash-back.

What will I think in September?

I used to mock conversation of the seasons and weather, considering it trite, shallow, teeth-setting. Sometimes it is, but sometimes Elvis is portrayed as a cartoon, too. (One day I’ll learn to scoff less.)

There were more frogs singing in the pond last night. The computer said “temperatures plummet” today. Oh, the drama. The hyperbole. The weather.

It’s fine. But I do keep saying we’ll have earned every petal of spring this year (as if it were ours somehow).

I’m off to spin records and pick up more apple trees from the hipster orchard and stare at the woods and mountains as they fly by the window, searching, searching.

There….are the maples blushing?

Something is brewing.

The wood ducks go house shopping. A binocular view from the back door.