A late April frost. The long-bladed grass glitters in the slanted
morning light. The dandelions are still tightly bunched, not yet open to
the day. Robins truck about in the unkempt grass, tracing low glancing curves as they move from lawn to lawn. Higher above, the cardinals perch on the bird feeders before heading deeper into the woods. I hear the jays' sharp calls. Back beyond the houses on our street, the trees rise to the water tower, beech and ash and oak. In their midst stands a tall solitary pine, one of the few with green. I see four crows curve about its top, cutting arcs in the sky. There is a nest at the pine's very top, too distant to make out anything beyond the suggestion of a bird. The morning warms quickly; the grass dries, the frost melts from the roof and drips below.
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