The Mild Mists of March

It won't be long till there are wild birds out there and the frogs will be croaking like crazy. 

From a journal handwritten in 1977 north of Arcola, Sask.:

“December Fifteenth.
Walking in the hills, an entire network of paths; they are always on the move. Coyote tracks, fox, rabbit turds, elk shit, squirrel tracks – enchanting… until I thought ‘They’re following each other around…’ "

2:39 p.m.

I am making a big pot of fagioli soup and does it ever smell good, reading Uncle Carl’s manuscript (more than two-thirds through; just finished chapter 42) a second time, sipping on a tea made with spearmint leaves, raspberry leaves, rosehips and a pinch of commercial blueberry tea.