I’m waiting for the cock to crow at dawn, waiting for the arrow to point not in a certain direction but to a certain time. All eyes keep looking toward the east for the rising sun and that infinitesimal climb in angle. The ewes are lambing now, always a sign that the time is near. The chickens are giving another egg or so here and there. In another few weeks the sap will be running, and the sugar shacks will be producing that wonderful amber liquid.
The animals and countryside seem to know a secret that the people have forgotten. Perhaps it because everyone is so weary now. Faces are long and tempers are short. “I’ve had enough! I’ve had enough!” everyone says. Those who live in cities and large towns are especially morose because they cannot see the signs of the approaching season. They can’t feel the rhythm changing yet. It will come on them suddenly during what we call “fool’s weather,” when they will run outside without coats and promptly become ill.
But I see the changes. I know she is coming. I’m waiting for the cock to crow at dawn. Time is still on my side.
|Pointing toward spring.|