Picnic and Poetry

April is poetry month in America even though early spring must inspire bad verse.  On days like today, when a patient person could watch wild trees leaf out and robins sing I want to gush. Wordsworth got away with Daffodils 200 years ago but would be savaged if he published it today.

Good thing Wordsworth isn’t with me today. He would be stunned by Gasteneau Channel now animated by strong northern light except where crowded over by feeding  scooters. I ride a bicycle out to Sheep Creek at noon and find hundreds of gulls and ducks crowding sand bars diminished by a high tide. One Canada goose paddles between islands of gulls while I eat a sandwich. The wind is up but it is comfortable enough if I take shelter behind a sun warmed boulder. Sunlight reflecting off the gulls’ feather cloaks makes me look away down channel and then up to appreciate the lights and darks on snow colored mountain peaks. Behind me mountain goats feed far down the mountain on the first burst of sweet leafs. When the wind drops I hear robin song.

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