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20 April 2006 — Spring Reverie (3)

Today, at last, the world was beautiful once more. The sky was blue. The sun shone rich and thick and warm. The trees and grass strained and stretched for growth. The tulips and camellias smiled brightly. In the late afternoon, the air was still and perfect: room temperature outdoors for the first time since last October. T-shirt weather.



The morning was cool and white. A thin mist hung over the newly-plowed country fields. Turning from Gribble to Oglesby, I slowed when I saw the bowed outstretched wings of an enormous bird: it swept over the pond, dipped, rose, and then landed on the muddy bank. The bird cocked its head and, for only a second, seemed to be looking directly at me. A tall and willowy blue heron, perched on reed-thin legs.



McLoughlin Boulevard skirts lower Oregon City, hugging the edge of the bluff which overlooks the river. In the morning, people gather at the side of the road to fish. They cast their lines from the short stone wall to the Willamette River below. They've been doing this for decades. (One of my earliest memories is stopping here with my grandfather to watch people fish.)

Today as I drove through Oregon City on my way to work, I smiled to see a burly white Alakaskan Husky sitting near his master, lounging at the side of the street, in the parking area, scrutinizing each passing car. It owned the place. It seemed perfectly content.



Arriving home last night at ten, I stopped to rub my hand over the bark of the dying clarendendron. The tree is a shell. Half of it has split and fallen away; the other half is hollow, clinging to what remains of its root system. I closed my eyes and took pleasure in the warm night air. I inhaled the sweet scent of freshly cut grass. (When I had left for the writers group meeting, there were at least five lawnmowers humming in chorus throughout the neighborhood.)

Something moved in the rose garden. "Hi, Simon," I said, but he didn't respond. He slinked away. His collar didn't jingle. "Simon? Flash?" I walked over to see which cat was there, and the garden erupted in motion: dark striped figures slid into the boxwood hedge. One made its way to the sidewalk, where it stopped in the open. A raccoon! Several, from the sounds of it.

I backed away. I let them be. I strolled through the darkened yard, examining strawberry blossoms and budding pears. The raspberries are a riot of new growth. I stopped to piss under the locust, which is just beginning to leaf. Rounding the corner of the house, Simon bounded from the ferns. He trotted beside me as I finished my inspection of the yard. On the sidewalk near the fron steps, he rolled and flopped, begging me to pet his belly.

Spring is here.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005Observed   In which I make observations about sleep, finances, and self-fulfillment.

2004Snopes   In which I discuss urban legends.

2003Water   In which I share a photo that I like but nobody else does, a photo of Silver Creek Falls.

2001Virtual Baseball League   In which I get all obsessive about a trade I made in my computer baseball simulation league.


Comments
On 20 April 2006 (10:43 AM), Amy Jo said:

I was hit with certainty that spring had arrived on Monday evening when Paul and I were leaving Kennedy School after a dinner and a movie, shortly after 8 pm. It wasn't dark yet and everything around me looked like it was in infrared--it glowed with life!


On 20 April 2006 (11:08 AM), Dave said:

I saw the same white dog this morning on my way past as well. Given the ah, "water purity", at that stage of the Willamette River I've never been real clear on why anyone in their right mind would want to eat something that had been living in that water. But it's a daily occurrence right at the bridge. Scary.


On 20 April 2006 (12:00 PM), mac said:

dave: Theoretically, the salmon haven't been in the river long enough to have any significant increase in toxin levels. Sturgeon are another story...theoretically...at least that's what my salmon fishing friends all say...