It's not changing the subject to say that the turkey vultures are back. To tell you the truth I'm happy to see them, these intelligent, misunderstood animals who leave before the weather gets cold and return now to soar and play in the warm thermals high above.
Life and death all at once: how very very Easter-ish. Like this pile of slash that somebody dumped in the woods behind our house over the winter.
The cherry branches strewn in a heap on the ground have no idea that they're dead. They're in full bloom, and I gathered an armful to take home.
The edge between light and dark is never so poignant as it is right now, on the cusp of spring.
Still, citizen sparrow, this vulture which you call
Unnatural, let him but lumber again to air
Over the rotten office, let him bear
The carrion ballast up, and at the tall Tip of the sky lie cruising.
Then you'll see
That no more beautiful bird is in heaven's height,
No wider more placid wings, no watchfuller flight;
He shoulders nature there, the frightfully free,
The naked-headed one. Pardon him, youFrom "Still, Citizen Sparrow" by Richard Wilbur
Who dart in the orchard aisles, for it is he
Devours death, mocks mutability,
Has heart to make an end, keeps nature new.