Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Winter in May

This is what we do when we know snow is in the forecast, when tomorrow promises to be dark and as damp as this morning's washcloth: we ride the sidewalks and stretches of grass hard, as though we're running from something, or running to something. We breath deeply, even though we're not out of breath, tasting the sun, balming our lips with its rays and licking it from the corners of our mouth as we'd lick faint smudges of orange popsicle stains. We dance and cavort until our knees wobble, and when we've done with that we turn our faces into the wind, coming in rapid bursts down from the mountains, still warm but laced on its edges with just the tiniest hem of ice and cold. It feels good, but as the sky darkens and the streetlights come on earlier than they have lately, we lean into it and squint to keep the dust from the streets out of our eyes. We hurry home and stand on the patio watching the clouds spill down over the foothills, creep steadily toward us and finally stretch out their wide bodies until they reach all the way to east and further than we can see. We hunker down and wonder When was the last time we saw snow in May? There are songs for snow in April but has someone written about snow in May? We wonder if anyone has told the ants or the myriad small buzzing things which careen toward our noses and mouths as we walk. They act like tomorrow will be sweet and sunny, another day closer to Summer. And even though it's not started yet, Duncan thinks of the grass, either wet and cold or tall and dry and the best way to roll in it. I think of the baseball fields and how nice it is to sit on the patio and close my eyes and listen for the sound of a good solid, fly ball from the park, even though I don't enjoy baseball and think it's just a bunch of milling around only occasionally interrupted by motion. But still, it's a nice sound, sharp and strong and good. I will miss it tomorrow, standing as I will be, my red dog next to me, on the warm side of the window looking out on the gray, hurried world of winter in May.

1 comment:

Kelly Medina said...

Great description of the clouds coming in and I agree completely about baseball being "bunch of milling around only occasionally interrupted by motion". Booooring!