Dripping green catkins on the hornbeam tree. Damp, heavy soil smell. I peer into the curious light of the young catkins. Sneakers slosh each ardent step down the hill. I lift my chin: the hornbeam treetop, with its spontaneous rustling, bridges the gap between sky and ground.
Once again the man leads two white dogs away from towering-high snow piles, waning moon above.
This is the most respected movement:
lolloping along an icy telephone wire
the baby squirrel in perfect step
with the Bach concerto