Sunday, March 1, 2009

Seasonal positions, now open.

It's snowed in Sewanee. Reflective glowing bits of the cloud that enveloped the mountain last night are everywhere, some is aeolian fluff, some is hard glissade-triggering sidewalk enamel. A few days ago in the valley though, you could hear it: the ratcheting metamorphic chorus, the audio brand of springish Tennessee coves in the homing advertisements of native memory.

I wonder where they go when this happens. How can a frosty chorus frog hide? And the early flowers?
"Those poor daffodils," says Elspeth.
"It's their own fault," I say, "jumping the gun like that."

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