Monday, 2 June 2003

Spring hath af­front­ed me with her most bla­tant dis­play of new life, bab­bies [the british ver­sion of the word]. Most every­where I have been to­day, I’ve seen bab­by am­i­nals. First this morn­ing, there were duck­lings. All over the place along the riv­er, trundling af­ter their parental duck. No drakes were to be seen. Damn miss­ing fa­thers.

Then a bit lat­er, right be­fore work was out, I al­most trod up­on a bab­by wab­bit. I crouched down and spoke with it for a mo­ment, but alas it whipped off all too soon. If I had felt right about it, I could have quite eas­i­ly picked it up and made off with it. A heinous bab­by-snatch­er.

Then af­ter drop­ping Jeremy off at home, I al­most flat­tened some goslings. They are al­ready as big as ducks, but still quite downy, I am not go­ing to en­joy run­ning along the riv­er once the piles of goose shit start to swell.

Something I al­ways heard, some­where else, I don’t quite re­mem­ber, its one of those neb­u­lous pieces of pseudo-​fact/​humor that seem to os­mose in­to the cere­bel­lum — is that God/​Nature made bab­bies as cute as they are so that their par­ents won’t kill them. The on­ly thing keep­ing in­fants from dire doom is their cute­ness. I’d prob­a­bly want to kill an ug­ly some­thing that screamed at me all day and re­quired all of my at­ten­tion.

Its a good thing I like chil­dren.

First Day of Spring

Thursday, 11 April 2002

the first true day of spring! whoohoo so many peo­ple lay­ing around and skip­ping class. it was nice to see that some peo­ple still en­joy na­ture, even if it is on­ly once in awhile. i wrote a pome about it.

Spring Returned

Tuesday, 2 April 2002

i woke up this morn­ing and the sky was the col­or of a week old bruise, and the air was filled with the noise of thun­der. to some peo­ple this would be ug­ly, but for me it is both fright­en­ing and won­der­ful. i love the sound of thun­der and the feel of rain on my face. it is awe-in­spir­ing to watch the thun­der­heads race each oth­er across the sky, drop­ping their wet lug­gage in a bid to be the first to reach wher­ev­er it is that old storms go to die. i want to fol­low along, skip­ping from pud­dle to pud­dle and melt­ing in­to the warm del­uge of Spring Returned.