On this cool late March morning, I went for a walk in the sun along the path which meanders next to the lagoons behind my residence. White Gulls, crying out and cackling, flashed and soared in crazy arcs over the wind-swept waters. A solitary Blue Heron posed vertically next to a pair of indifferent geese, their homestead in the clump of bushes nearby.
The place is all berms and flats, entirely grey at this time of year. I just keep moseying on, about my business, walking as exercise. It’s a task I have to complete to stave off the stiffness of body –and mind– that comes with age.
It is early spring. The only sign of rebirth that I can see is a swelling and faint yellowing of the branches of the weeping widows, mirrored and shimmering in the water. The willows will produce their narrow leaves soon, and though I can’t see any yet, bright Jonquills and a carnival of tulips are on their way. The grass will turn green again, too.
In the mid-west, close to Chicago these changes occur slowly. The promise of rebirth from the ice and cold of winter is something we residents experience every year. Easter is coming, too, and its promise is in the air. I wouldn’t trade today for anything.
