Peeping the Bog: April 7, 2014
Rain last night, slow and gentle, driven only by its own weight and the pull of Earth’s gravity. The sound of it came to me through my dreams, its clean scent through the slightly open window by my bed. All night it rinsed down taking with it into the earth the old snow still lying about the yard, the hill, the bog. When I awoke, it had stopped and the fog that followed it was lifting. Now, mid-morning, I notice movement in the bog, a fox meandering over the snow, nosing into the swaths of old grass, looking for mice. The watercourse is swollen with rain; on the bay, water has replaced yesterday’s yellowed soft spots. The sky is cerulean, a word that begs to be drawn out: ceruuuuleeean. I open the side door to the yard. The air is not warm, not cold. Winter unto spring: cerulean.
Susan Carol Hauser's Blog 