The first of the 7 o’clock sunsets

Sunday, the first day +60 degrees in a long time. In the morning under the trees it sounds like the birds are filling into the auditorium, taking their seats. They all know when to come back and they all know when it’s time to go. I make a wish on my walk to the lake and return: today I’ll get the grill out, hang the hammock, open the windows in the bedroom. And on the lawn chair at the corner of our yard, all those spring memories come back, the shuffling of the cards.

Got the bikes out for the kids, took my shirt off, felt the soft burn of it in the light. All those small peeping, tweeting sounds in the trees, my kind of notification. And the first flies set upon my bare feet, I could be Walt Whitman with my beer, on a suburban Sunday. They were just common flies, but I let them check me out. All the hair on my legs stopped growing, fell out, displaced to other parts of my body in random swirls: but the legs now baby smooth, translucent-white. And the flies reminded me of the fish I let nibble my skin in one of those southeast Asian tanks you put your feet in; it’s supposed to be relaxing or restorative but it was neither when I did it in Prague and one of them drew blood, and they had to clean the tank out.

And I didn’t play jazz or classical music but listened to the birds instead, couldn’t identify a single one of them but each played their own tune and together, it all worked.

At the Whole Foods I got in line behind a girl with Pippi Longstocking hair, two bags of jalapeño chips, a San Pellegrino: and the Madonna song “Crazy for You” came on, put us in a spell, and rather than stand there facing forward she spun around and seemed to move on cue to some inner dialogue, and smiled/looked back at me as she left, and I wondered, was she touched? Like, in the Irish sense? And aren’t we all come spring, the opposite manic from fall, from winter? The light’s its own intoxicant.

Photo by Loren Chasse, Waitts Lake, eastern Washington (March, 2015)

This post a near opposite of one here.

Categories: Memoir, musings

Tags: , , , , ,

24 replies

  1. Sounds like you had a Mark-at-the-theatre moment.
    Today, Deb and I went snowshoeing in the woods at the edge of town. We finally stumbled on the beaver den we’d heard was there, and some enterprising folks had constructed an elevated boardwalk over parts of the marshier areas. No sighting of the beavers; they know it’s still winter here by a long shot.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Beautiful. As always. Evocative. As always.

    Setting the grill out, hanging the hammock, opening the window … it’s just time, isn’t it?

    Liked by 1 person

  3. You have a way of nailing that last line…nice post. Spring is here, in this post at least!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. here’s to the band getting back together. ’tis the season.


  5. Classic seasons (four, rotating) and Bird jazz. Enjoyed this soundtrack, Bill.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Good Lord, I dream of 60+. Degrees. Not age. Please tell me it will come someday. Because currently, we have yet banother nor’easter bearing down on us–the third in two weeks–and it seems like I’ll never feel the sun kiss my face again.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Yes, bird music. Charlie Bird. Charlie Parker. Warble on, boys.


  8. Will read this no-doubt excellent blog post ASAP. In the meantime, letting you know I’ve nominated you for an award. I don’t think you necessarily count as “new” or even “new-ish,” but you’re one of my favorite writers of blogs. You owe me money. Chat soon! Oh, and you can see it when I publish it in a few minutes here… and I can even send a link or something.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. That was beautiful…brief and strong like spring. I love the last few lines—you captured those wondering moments so nicely.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Beautiful post. I’m looking at 2 feet of snow here but I so look forward to the transformative symptoms of spring

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: