It has been too cool and wet to do much gardening. The abundance of birdsong bewilders me. Spring is unsettling--the leaves are so small, the flowers are barely open, the grass is dark but the lawn patchy. Sparrows are in the gutters, but I can't see what they're doing there.
The other morning a coyote wandered up and down the railroad tracks behind our house. Unlike the majestic, wolfish one I saw in Palos Forest a year ago, this one's fur was short; it looked mean. Was it lost or hunting for something? I wanted it to find some goose eggs--there are too many geese in the neighborhood--but that seemed unlikely there.
As I pluck the weeds, the wind scatters them over the sidewalk. Their roots seem old, firmly established; the leaves just snap off when I pull. One bulb I planted last fall has produced such an ungainly lily that I'm not so sure I'm ready for it to bloom. I want to pull it too, but that would be criminal.
A mouse got into the basement. I keep lowering the thermostat. The matzo is diminishing. Soccer games have begun. The signs of spring are inescapable. Where will it all end?
The possibilities are limitless.