Marching

It is Marching. Every day over the same well-worn roads, thaw pulling chunks of asphalt, leaving potholes filled with watery grit. Trees with elbows and hands like branches reaching out across the road, oaks leaning perilously. Redding buds. A majestic sunlight paints highlights across the expanse of field between me and the distant Wood. The Sudbury river, flat like a roadway wends itself through the landscape, a black stripe still lined with snow, placid, the perfect mirror for the sky above. Giant white expanse of still-snow-covered Farrar Pond, a former wend in the Sudbury River, an ancient oxbow. These last days of winter with spring rising are days of hope expressed in Nature. Earth renewed, the resurrection. The dogwoods near Dougherty's Garage in Lincoln glow a soft green now as their fuzzy buds prepare to burst into flower. I will miss the passing season, the open forest, the trees fully naked, the vision afforded, and the insights allowed, but I welcome the rising life. March has come and we are marching.

Amidst these changes in my place, I smell a rising tide of dissent. A quarter million chime in in one day to save Alaska. A public relation's buzz more thoughtful and better timed than the disaster the Bush team has led us into. I see cracks in the armor now, I hear the quiet rising of opposition. Keep your ear to the ground and your voices loud, the tsunami of Truth is on its way.