Springtime. Easter. Our days stretch. The song of frogs mating fills all of the night and most of the day.

Annie Dillard writes:

The day widened, pulled from both ends by the shrinking dark, as if darkness itself were a pair of hands and daylight a skein between them, a flexible membrane, and the hands that had pressed together all winter—praying, paralyzed with foreboding—now flung wide open.

It’s not, probably, that the first of the daffodils bloomed at the Cabin today, but that today, Easter, is when I first saw them.

Despite my intention of having a nonEaster this year, rebirth fills my head.

Eggs. Shatter the shells.

Pull apart the whites and the yolks.

Devil those eggs. Place them in crystal. We will feast.