Mood: singing the mind eclectic…
Weather: wind-toss`d Waves rage under starry skies…
Reading: The Sea Wolf by Jack London
Listening To: Systems/Layers by Rachel`s
Skittering and dancing along the briny beaches of Oyster Harbor, a Blue Crab emerges from the sandy loam. Tossed asunder by the rollicking surf, his jaunty lateral swagger belies his yearning solitude. The shells and stones glitter like treasure `neath the undulating ebb of a brackish Tide… but it is not Spring, not yet.
Down under shaded backstreets near Eastport Bridge, I saw tiny pinkish-green blooms hidden in the sleeping gray-brown boughs of an Ulmus Americana. Swaying in the erstwhile breeze, she seemed to groan and yawn in a slow sleepy awakening… but it is not Spring, not yet.
Up around Wardour Bluffs I stirred a flock of Orioles, each yammering and pecking at the crackling leaf-strewn ashen soil. A few errant Sparrows soared back and forth `cross the open meadow, keening against the Sun and diving back down again towards the grasp of Earth… but it is not Spring, not yet.
Beside the sweetest shores of Quiet Waters, there is found a shrub of inscrutable taxonomy; stodgy and gnarled in the saline gales of the Sea – but woven in betwixt the cold dull brambles is a slender tendril of verdant breathing. Tiniest of buds holding promises of growth and renewal… but it is not Spring, not yet.
Where Bay and River Drives meet along the headlands, I behold the dying Sun throw startlements across the Chesapeake. Setting the fields ablaze with golden fire and bathing the buildings in burning crimsons…
So too does maiden Winter weave dreams and spells against the warmer days to come. Vernal imminence found in hidden shoots of Daffodils and Tulip bulbs…
Reeds and tall dead grasses bend in the wind, as Dusk surrenders to a starry Night. Traffic crowds the distant Bay Bridge in trailings of headlights…
The bells in the old town ring out the hours, as the days, as the years…
O, but it is not Spring… no, not yet.
A Place To Stand 