Monday, March 31, 2008


With four cats and two apes in our smallish house, there are never enough places for us all to sit. Tufte just left the best spot on the best chair and I took it. Now he's back and sitting across my lap and both wrists as I try to type this entry on my laptop. 

Snow, Sleet, Freezing Rain

Large clumps fall, sticking only on the grassy surfaces. When I pulled in this morning after my meeting, Tufte came rushing out of the barn to the back steps, his gray fur tufted with snowflakes. He ran up to the door, pushed his nose into it, and stood there waiting. As this transpired, Minnie appeared on the porch steps around the other side of the house and mewed at us with great vigor. I let Tufte in with me, then walked through the house to the porch door to rescue Minnie. He wasn't there; he had gone over to the steps that Tufte and I had used, and now had to travel back again through the wetness. He came running when I called, scolding me all the way, his indignation dripping from his fur. But the howls turned to loud purr as soon as he crossed the magic threshold. I removed some burdock from his only slightly wet back and gave both cats treats. Then they napped.

Sunday, March 30, 2008


It warmed up enough this afternoon so that the earth softened. Deep footprints everywhere and tracks throughout the house. There is no solid ground except the pavement, which, one would have to conclude, floats. The garden is a viscous ocean. The separation of the earth from the seas—never happened. 


19° this morning at the end of March. The crocuses, just beginning to poke through the leaves and show their colored buds, have stalled. In Boston this week the front yards were spread with purple and yellow, big cups fully open. In New York three weeks ago, even the daffodils were fat-budded. Winter lingers in these parts, but the light is Spring-like. When we pass the Equinox, the cup of day spills over.

Saturday, March 29, 2008


It is still flowing fast and high, but has come down a lot since last week's torrential rains. North of Dawes, the tips of the biggest rocks breach the surface and the water churns white as it speeds through the narrow channels between. Sun glints off the surface in the distance. Beneath me, it penetrates into greenish depths of rocks and mud. Cars pass behind me at intervals short enough to suppress the rush of river sound, but the only garbage visible is a red bicycle frame on the east bank next to the bridge support. I inspect the break between the bridge rail and the adjacent fence. It's large enough for a person to slip through—I consider going down, but the bank is just too steep. 


13 very fat ones sunning on the riverbank.