My winter night walks have become spring sunset walks. The change happened as most changes do – gradually then suddenly. One evening I am out walking next to the river, the diaphanous mist of my exhalations suspended and illuminated in the darkness by my headlamp; the next evening I am bathed in the warm orange glow of the setting spring sun inhaling the faint scent of wild plum blossoms. Though I have enjoyed my winter night walks, it is good to feel the sun’s rays again and see the verdant world that has laid dormant for so long energetically awaken from its slumber.
The spring equinox was glorious. Untarnished blue skies marred only by the vapor trails of occasional jets passing overhead. Warm spring air still haunted by the last frosty ghosts of fading winter. And after sunset, the appearance of yet another super moon, full alabaster white this time, bathing everything in silvery tones.
Today was a virtual repeat of yesterday. I arrived home a little earlier than usual and cajoled my son into joining me on my walk. The plum tree perfume was a little heavier than it had been the day before, or perhaps it just seemed so because of the perfectly still air. As we walked along the riverbank, my son prattled on about the various characters in Sonic the Hedgehog. When he had exhausted the topic, we talked for a while about equinoxes and solstices and the eternal war between light and darkness. Out in the fields, the deer were grazing in full force, and we stopped for a moment and counted them.
At the line of poplar trees near the levee, my son paused to rest and noticed the carcass of a rabbit next to the narrow drainage ditch that flows into the river. We looked at the bundle of fur and bone wordlessly for half-a-minute, and then turned away and made our way back to the house. After a few minutes, my little boy was talking about Sonic again, and I listened with all the interest I could muster. As the sun sank behind a stand of black locust trees in the distance, I noted that the light had hung on a little longer than it had the day before. As imperceptible as it had been, it somehow made all the difference in the world.
The spring equinox was glorious. Untarnished blue skies marred only by the vapor trails of occasional jets passing overhead. Warm spring air still haunted by the last frosty ghosts of fading winter. And after sunset, the appearance of yet another super moon, full alabaster white this time, bathing everything in silvery tones.
Today was a virtual repeat of yesterday. I arrived home a little earlier than usual and cajoled my son into joining me on my walk. The plum tree perfume was a little heavier than it had been the day before, or perhaps it just seemed so because of the perfectly still air. As we walked along the riverbank, my son prattled on about the various characters in Sonic the Hedgehog. When he had exhausted the topic, we talked for a while about equinoxes and solstices and the eternal war between light and darkness. Out in the fields, the deer were grazing in full force, and we stopped for a moment and counted them.
At the line of poplar trees near the levee, my son paused to rest and noticed the carcass of a rabbit next to the narrow drainage ditch that flows into the river. We looked at the bundle of fur and bone wordlessly for half-a-minute, and then turned away and made our way back to the house. After a few minutes, my little boy was talking about Sonic again, and I listened with all the interest I could muster. As the sun sank behind a stand of black locust trees in the distance, I noted that the light had hung on a little longer than it had the day before. As imperceptible as it had been, it somehow made all the difference in the world.
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