There once was a girl who could write
Her words were full of insight
She tried a limerick
That fell like a brick
But her stories floated like light.
In March, I still don’t usually like to walk in the morning.
Even though I’m a walker.
I don’t hike or run, trot or dawdle. I walk for miles for the majesty of . . . walking.
No little music plugs; instead I keep my ears open for the sound of the woodpecker and the hawk, the trill of the mocking bird and the taunt of the squirrel. I listen to the scrunch of the leaves, the low roar of the plane above me, and the soft slap of my shoes on wooden bridge and wooded path.
March is still cold in New England. This past week, the temperature didn’t rise above 28 and snow swirled savagely, swaying with the frigid air, thumbing its proverbial nose at me.
But February has vanished, the time has changed, and the light promises to lift my mood, which was sobered by the gloom of winter’s gray.
So here I am at 7 a.m., walking the dirt trail near our home in the woods. The air is a cool 34 degrees and a bit soggy, like a sock that hasn’t totally dried. We’re promised rain and sleet later in the day.
For now, I appreciate the lack of drops and the feel of the earth, and I tread lightly for a half an hour until I reach my favorite rock. A hard steady gray New England rock that I pat like a friend, sending it a silent token of my appreciation for its presence in my walking day.
Strangely, I feel that it’s thanking me back, perhaps because it seems to be rocking gently from side to side.
Well, that’s just crazy, but then I hear a grumble. The air becomes as still as night and the birds disappear like ghosts.
The rock shakes and shakes and SHAKES. And then,
. . . a green hand slides out of the crevice.
May you always walk in sunshine
May you never want for more
May Irish angels rest their wings
Right beside your (rock) and door.