The Fat Robin sang and caused winter to end and spring to begin. That was the day before yesterday. Yesterday it started snowing big wet clumps and didn’t stop for a long while. I can still hear the robin exclaiming some lustily hoped-for territory back in the woods, but he hasn’t come back to my window where faux winter covers similarly imagined green shoots.
This snowfall has brought my accounting to 100 even inches for the season, enough to see us through to the next, I suppose. Tomorrow or the day after I will walk the mile and a half to the place I left my vehicle and head for town, there being necessary things to tend for a month. When I come back, the imagined green might be a little more evident and the white gone away for the time being. The time being. What incalculable words are these!
I’ve been spending a lot of time reading, most recently thirteen moons by Charles Frazier. In the book, outwardly about something else entirely, inwardly it is very much about time:
And according to Lucretius, time works similarly [as space]. Without it everything would happen all at once. A beautiful and horrible explosion of simultaneous events, an instant of awful frenzy and then, ever after, black nothing. So of course time is necessary. But nevertheless damn painful, for it transforms all the
pieces of your life –joy and sorrow, youth and age, love and hate,
terror and bliss—from fire into smoke, rising up the air and
dissipating on a breeze. (p. 419)
Thankfully, we are here to observe the great beauty of such passages as
the quickening seasons and may enjoy the fire of time being.