There is still snow on the southern side of our yard, underneath the fence.
I notice funny, dry buds. Were they there all winter, my eyes blind to them?
I stopped to look at a squirrel and it stopped to look at me as if it was wondering if I would give it some food.
I also stopped for a delicious three minutes in the middle of all the hubbub at Yonge and Dundas. I watched a spot on the sidewalk over which a tiny piece of paper blew and listened to all the noises including a fire engine and a small man playing a long eastern string instrument with a bow. At dusk I stole some lines from Hopkins:
I caught this evening
In sunset's glory
The jet stream high
Of a silver fish
As it swept smooth on a bow bend.
Would it approach the moon
Sleeping on her back
In transparent clouds?
I have pink eye and now it is bothering me.