It’s the week after “opening day” and time to get out fishing. I never go on opening day, way too crowded, too many non-fishers making their only appearance of the year. Hey, not that I don’t like fishing with others but unless it’s in a canoe, or a boat, I’d rather not be within rod length of each other. Crossed and tangled lines, limited drift, poor etiquette, all sap the enjoyment from the outing. But this weekend? Time to wet a fly, see who,s coming to dinner…
Standing, silently, oh!
There, starts now a song of spring.
Spring peepers singing.
Florence Griswold made her home the home of America’s early impressionist painter. Today her home in Old Lyme, CT is open to the public. Dedicated volunteers have restored and keep up Miss Florence’s gardens. Stop by and visit.
So shy, where to hide?
In the leaves, beneath the pine,
exchanging pollen.
Silver flashing streak
Headlights sweeping the meadow.
Coyote in the night
Spring has sprung a leak!
Winter precipitation,
Thermostat needs a tweak.
Bands of blue and purple,
Signs of winter’s brutal weather,
Have bruised the sky.
Tasting blood red, sweetness,
Seeing blue skin, bruising, crushing,
Grapes into wine.
Secretly I have been
watching you, wanting you to start.
Watching me too.
On snowy salt-marsh reed,
a lone redwing blackbird clings;
Sentinel of Spring
Haiku Journey 