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. |