Swelling

Danny and I walked to Tim Horton's for morning coffee. We had to line up out the door. This location usually offers rugged men in plaid jackets and beards for viewing enjoyment. The new chocolate caramel doughnut was so sweet it set my teeth on edge. I'll stick with sour cream glazed.

Then we wandered to the park where birds heralded spring. The woods were filled with thin, cascading songs of juncos, backed up by chickadees. A bright cardinal darted ahead. Robins turned from their patches of mud to stare at us. On the river we glimpsed a small duck-like head bob underwater. We went down to see, but it never reappeared. Diving ducks never disappear for long or swim far, so it must have been a pied-billed grebe.

A hairy woodpecker assiduously worked the dead elm. "I wonder if they ever get sore necks," Danny said. "They must have good chiropractors."

Tree buds were swelling. It's an honour to have several mature elms thriving in the neighbourhood. I stopped to admire the tallest at the end of Brockville Avenue. Some live, some die. Smaller ghost trees stand around like nude, pale echoes of life, gaunt limbs grasping for heaven.





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