. . . and Earth Day. What does it signify that poetry and egg-centered creation ceremonies are concurrent? I drive across the Tusas/Brazos Pass in the Southern San Juan Mountains on dry roads padded by softening snow ridges on the shoulders. Silvery ribbons of melt web still crusty marshes at the top of the mountain. Little rills fall downhill in rushing flush. Cold ponds are full to the brim. I see two kestrels, a prairie falcon, flocks of mountain bluebirds and dozens of deer --little packs of does and their fawns. Both gold and bald-headed eagles scoop the skies as I near the wild river canyon.
At the drying lake (a young reservoir whose status is lowest on the refill list) the bald eagles are already nesting. No sign yet of osprey, but mating ravens carve sharp winds above the dam and and north-heading geese fly in pairs over it. The chicamunks have left off sleeping and raid the leavings under the bird feeders. Many Cassins finches, pygmy nuthatches, white-faced nuthatches, mountain chickadeedeedees, packs of scrub jays, magpies, crows. Deer show up in the sideyard shy as women in purdah. They are annoyed and feel they must leave when I open the door.
And I dutifully do the taxes --returns both slippery and ovoid, require a certain sense of creativity-- under bright wind sky and simmering sun streaming through large windows. Taking a break to write this. Going on a walk soon!