Wait

A flock of robins flies over the house, red breasts glowing in sunset's salmon light. A ladybug wanders across my windowpane until I capture it gently and let it out into the fresh day. I deliberately overdo it, digging in the wet ground to get some bulbs and plants in, pruning roses and grape vines, clearing out the collapsed arbor, weeding. My arms are bare so the sun can caress pale skin. It feels like spring, actually, feels like an Oregon February, when the weather inexplicably clears for a pair of weeks and teases us with the promise of endlessly good weather ... soon. I hope we get this in February too. This is day two of blue sky, soft air and a glowing sense in the world that tomorrow we'll see big blooms and leaves open up. That would be bad, unfortunately. January, even the end of January, is too early. We'll see frost again, maybe tonight since the sky has misplaced its gray blanket.

The dogs basked together by the fence in sunlight, their fur gilded by warmth. The cats are on a killing spree, bringing in at least one vole a day, and blood stains the deck. Everyone is overdoing it. Spring fever, or more like spring festival, with the rushing about and the smiling and the anticipation of revelry.

So it comes as no surprise that I want to work on projects non-stop. But it's getting dark, and it's time to settle. I'll sit with a glass of wine that holds the memory of fresh fruit inside it, and try to remember the meaning of patience.