This is the last day of February, and thanks to the modern miracles of technology and the Weather Network, I can just sit here in the frozen hinterland and hear all about the warm winds wafting over Bahamas, the "thunder'n' woodcocks" in Ohio, the balmy breezes off Key West, Florida.
But up here? We're still waiting.
Bursting with hope, and patient for the breeze that will unlock
these pregnant pods, and then bring me a Monarch's kiss.
While the band's bus sits. Tired, retired and rusty. Consigned to the field.
Waiting for the rhythm and the beat and the pulse of the music to echo on a warm spring night. Listening for the crickets and the peepers.
Lines have been drawn. Stones offered up where before there were none.
If you're going to mend me, and help me to delineate your boundaries,
then now would be a good time.
I am waiting.
And sitting on the fence is not a decision.
A scratch, and nuzzle, a whisper, a hug.
Please.
I'm waiting.
We see you everyday. We leave traces and tracks.
But you never follow.
Our trails will disappear, and you won't know where we've gone.
But we will be busy. And you'll want to know.
We'll wait for you in the still of the evening,
down where the creek meets the river and the trickle becomes our sweet treat.
And then one day comes the moment of no return.
And for a singular, frozen second complete freedom reigns.
The waiting is over.
And it's time to make a splash.
Bring it.
