everything is grey misty green, a cloudy version of neon. forsythia and daffodils gone by. the time for yellow blooms seems to have passed and now we wait for the sun to break through again, the ground to finish it's thaw and to plant our too big seedlings. as we wait we forage, bake, stomp in puddles, gather bouquets, utterly filthify ourselves in mud, turn the compost. beanie gathers grubs for her hens and minnow eats and eats and eats the eggs. they both grow and grow and grow. there's no season for rest in that process of theirs. time moves on in quiet charted mornings, in the swarming of weekend cousin and grandparent visits, night time rituals, but mostly expansive afternoons of lolling around the field and yard. with photographs the only thing to remind us later that those slow moments are our real lives.
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