A Walk In Early April

Against the sun-wall of air the birds disguise themselves as their own shadows, before settling invisibly among the leaves. A medley of songs pours from the tree screen. Was that blink of blue a blue-jay? That flash of red a cardinal? Nothing lasts long enough in April to be certain. Green claims the landscape, but gray bark still covers a leafless tree: Is it dead, or a late bloomer? The tiny leaves of a willow press its branches down toward the pond's surface. Will heavier leaves soon dip those branches into the water? Or will they hover like Tantalus's lips just above the pond all summer long? A black dog parallels my steps, barking fiercely and lunging at me, but she does not cross the lawn's edge. Her bite is certainly worse than her bark, but I have no fear. When I fan my fingers into a wave good-bye, she hops in a circle, no longer barking or lunging. Disarmed by my quiet lack of threat, she slips back into her proper role as pet.