03/24/19 A too early for spring spider works its weariless web windings near the bottom bush branches. Perhaps ambition envisions capture of a small chickadee. Certainly no arachnid size insect lunches emerge in this sunny, but chill breezed afternoon. Most likely the reverse will occur and this quick-wiggled worker will become the blue jay breakfast. Maybe this spider holds the name “Phil” and is harbinger of spring or winter cling. Regardless, I do not think his intricate home will last long. Does offer a mystery of emergence, the too-soon of it and the why. Nature can be strange that way. Emily Dickinson, in her book of selected poems, wrote of pity for those who didn’t know nature, but regretted “That those who know her, know her less/The nearer her they get” (62). I have for a long time loved the call of the outdoors, the wrap of slender wind fingers around a mood or the soft breath of sun-streams through pines lulling imaginings.
Nothing has ever matched the boyhood lay-back on fresh cut grass to restfully gaze at clouds meandering through the blue, creating sun-streams and dreams. That must be Arthur on his warrior steed or a locomotive trying a hill. Way off, that grey one means rain somewhere – way over there where it doesn’t matter just now. Cut hay settles a sweet scent over the recent spring pea harvest, those vines’ decay a tad unpleasant at times, especially in midday heat. Sometimes an angel might gently billow up, or a fearful “Is that God coming to end it all?!!” The Putt-a-putt, putta-putta-pop of Herwig’s John Deere and Parker off on some vital task always rhythmed the daylight. I make a point of the grass recline each spring and summer – use the leaves and the odors of fading in the fall. These times always bring a peace, a settle cherished since youth, a minute or hour of senses alive in the world of staring. Yet in all the 60+ years of day-doodles, the mystery remains. I know nature less. Voices, webs of air, fresh filled silo, clover-the “ever-ness” of it all, the rejuvenation despite the fires, floods, and storms. New shoots from the felled oak. Squirrel moved bulbs still poke stems to blossom red and yellow tulips and pale-yellow daffodils.
Soon a new sun will caress the mornings and sundown will creep away to end a charmed and blessed day of “new.” I think in all this reverie I realize another Dickinson truth. “So instead of getting to heaven at last, /I’m going all along!” We should not miss God with us in this land He created and gave for us to enjoy, to tend, to join in harmony. submitted by Dave Smith