Spring is slow in blossoming this year. On a walk along the
river Sunday, I saw a patch of dandelions,
seven pussy willows laced in light green catkins, and the
early petals of forsythia in their attempt to turn the empty branches yellow.
The rest was barely in a state of bud. But yesterday it
rained, at times in downpours, and last night I heard a line of thunder
echo down the river like a lonely highway in Nebraska. Fog
was low this morning but I know the curtain soon will rise.
Transformation is the only thing on earth that's certain.
Oh, I also saw a butterfly.
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