The Sorrows of Young Werewolf (eyeteeth) wrote,
The Sorrows of Young Werewolf

Neither do they spin

As happens every year at around this time, I want to write about the arrival of spring. I do not like winter. Cold weather and exaggerated periods of darkness both make me sad and irritable, so winter to me is one long bad mood. But around now, around the end of Daylight Savings, the annual miracle occurs: the sunlight becomes more vigorous, the wind breathes more gently, the hard earth softens and begins to yield cheerful green blades. I want once again to write about the sparrows chirping and screaming from each tree and the pigeon cocks trying to impress the hens with the circumference and brilliant color of their throats, and especially about the starlings, their beaks yellow once again, their feathers gleaming as if oiled. Today I even saw a woodpecker in Therapy Park. I would like to say what kind of woodpecker it was, but to the untrained eye (mine) all woodpeckers look very similar.

But then I start worrying about money, and it all goes out of my head -- the woodpecker, the warm breeze, the new shoots on the Callery pear trees, even the daffodils heralding the approach of my sister's birthday. So I can only write about what I would write about if I could write. How Borgesian!
Tags: animals, not writing, therapy park
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