How can it be both things?
The first day of spring and a day of horrible war. How can I hold the grace for one and feel despair of the second in the same day, in the same hour?
Inside, I watch the bombs, and outside, buttercups, forget-me-nots, daffodils and lilies sway me.
I returned to an Osprey nest that I plan to monitor throughout the year. It sits suspended in First Valley and from a trail above we're able to see down inside. It seems sturdier than last year's nest, and I wonder if the same two birds built it. One of them sits as if they have eggs but doesn't move off the spot so I'm unable to know for sure. My friend has a scope and we plan to watch as the chicks hatch, are fed, grow and fledge.
Outside my window a beautiful hummingbird, is it Allen's or Rufous, rests on a twig, tiny as a leaf. My heart breaks with the sight of one so delicate.
The pain of war makes the spring beauty more piercing. The impossible green of a newly born leaf set against the oaks' still mossy torso makes me want to rip open my breast and cry. Every blossom a miracle in a world like this: where the unthinkable happens.
Where the unthinkable is set to music, and graphics are created, and commentators talk about the unspeakable. Where do they find the words?
posted by Lisa Thompson on 9:15 AM link | comments 
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