oh joy!

    Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing: Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! from Spring, the sweet spring, Thomas Nashe (1567–1601)  ...

2. The First Sunday

The sun rose soft—unassuming really, on this gentle Sunday morning. And by early afternoon—this first of official spring*, it glittered like a thousand stars on the surface of Bickley’s Pond. And yet when I glanced out my big kitchen window, what caught my eye...

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