"April is the cruelest month" - T.S. Eliot
Spring is not always idyllic. Earlier this week I walked down the lake. In the woods ATVs had cut ugly swaths through the carpet of moss and running pine. No spring wild-flowers brightened the forest floor. The sky was overcast and the lake was muddy brown from the recent rains. I sat down on a log at the edge of the lake and looked out over the brown water at a forlorn bench perched precariously on a sagging dock.
Two geese suddenly rose from the water and circled overhead, their flight strong and true against the gray clouds. Then they were gone, and I walked back into the woods to see what I could see. Spring doesn't last very long.
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