The salesman is suddenly busy. All the materials he promised in December now need to be strategized and delivered. Lunch is just finishing, and he sits so we can count the days together.The sun is warm enough that we have the big garage door open. Sun falls into the empty shop. The place isn’t neat, but the floor is swept; we’re prepared to roll the next project in.
Yes, to be realistic, it will probably be two weeks before we start planting potatoes. Lately, or I should say during my time as a farmer, the start of spring potato planting has gotten progressively later. And less.
The trees do blush, and the buds do swell, but not a leaf issues forth. To escape the sense of a spring-stall, go to the swamp and wild lands. For though these places are decidedly tiny, in their cornered condition these preserves become all the more gemlike.
From a birdwatcher’s perspective, from the notes in my field guide, Poxabogue is rich. One of Poxy’s chief assets is its geography and proximity. You come across a grassy plain, drop down through a thicket and into another break of oak and evergreen. Then you are on the high edge of the pond. You look down into and across the sizable wetland.
Today, I note a blade of white among the phragmites—a great egret, which is also aware of me. The distance between us means the sliver of a bird stays put. Further on the trail, I spot the male. He is perched in a tree, and it is the first time I have seen one of these birds in his fresh breeding plumage.
It took me a little while to understand, through my binoculars, what I was seeing. Until I am fully focused, I do not want to rule out weather-tattered garbage. His back was to me. His resting posture, hunched, his lanky neck withdrawn, his long plumes being swept by the wind. He looks not unlike a giant silken tassel. So brilliant white a bird, that glint could be its camouflage.
Staff Writer on Apr 7, 2015