It was a typical Sunday morning. We breakfasted on pancakes, fruit, and coffee, and watched George Stephanopoulos tease an admittance out of Condoleezza Rice that Iraq never posed an imminent threat to the US, unless imminent is redefined as vague and indirect. Good stuff.
But still, I had this lolling anxiety. The doldrums. Maybe it was the gray weather, or a bit of Sunday malaise. With no concrete plans, I had 20 hours of free time to devote to all the noncritical adult stuff I’ve been meaning to do, like reviewing my investments and researching future equity purchases. It was only 10am, and the day already felt wasted.
Enough!
We drive to the Blue Hills Reservation with full knowledge that spring’s full eminence has yet to enliven the woods. Yet it’s coming. The buds hang heavy from weathered limbs. Birds fly overhead lugging nest material. We venture on the bog walk, testing our balance on the buoyant logs floating in the rich waters. We laugh and take deep breaths. Lorca sings in my head. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches.
Bogwalk
