Sunday, March 19, 2017

R Egret

 I went to the most beautiful park in Orange County yesterday, walked around and took bunches of photos. Oliver rode his bike on the trails, disappearing into the grasses. The rain we had last month has turned everything green, and even the weeds and grasses were chest high. I watched that egret above stalk a lizard for a few minutes, its neck swaying in anticipation. I'm not sure it ever got it. R egret is what I felt. For all the moments gone, unaware.

Hawks were screaming in some kind of mating ritual, and a bunch of men on the other side of middle age were flying remote-controlled airplanes in an empty field. Men and their toys, is what I thought.  I prefer the hawk.

I was texting with a couple of friends today and all agreed that our general Sunday blues were even bluer. One friend suggested that it was the change in the weather, the weird onset of spring. Maybe it's the death of Chuck Berry, another friend suggested. Maybe it's just life in general these days, I think we all agreed.  I remembered the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that I trundle out every April because it speaks so directly to the feeling, particularly that last line. I think I'll post it a little earlier in honor of climate change.

I do love my dark blue friends.


To what purpose, April, do you return again? 
Beauty is not enough. 
You can no longer quiet me with the redness 
Of little leaves opening stickily. 
I know what I know. 
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe 
The spikes of the crocus. 
The smell of the earth is good. 
It is apparent that there is no death. 
But what does that signify? 
Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing, 
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. 
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, 
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay


  1. Sundays have always been a little more difficult for me. Unless it is football season.

  2. I love your egret pic, and needless to say the Millay poem. What is up with grown men and model airplanes? I've seen guys here in London, on Hampstead Heath and Wormwood Scrubs, flying them. I don't get it. Anyway, that park with its birds and grasses looks like an amazing place to walk.

    I used to get Sunday blues when I was in school, but I kind of like Sundays these days.




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