A Kinrowan Estate story: A Spring day

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Finally, a day that really feels like spring — sunny, mild, light breezes — a perfect morning for a walk down by the Pond. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, so I want to catch up.

The geese are very busy this morning, and much more vocal than usual. I think there’s a lot of courting going on: they seem to be settling down into pairs. The ducks, too, are busily getting ready to nest — they seem to mate while swimming as often as not. It’s a wonder any of them survive that part without drowning.

There’s starting to be green on the branches, and more — apples are blooming, and we have scillas, daffodils and hyacinths in the garden. There are patches in the meadows and near the Wood where they’ve settled in and gone wild, so there are drifts of blue and yellow in the grass.

And the maples are in bloom — they bloom quite early, with branches full of little flowers that look like little sea creatures, barnacles somehow caught in the trees, with tentacles waving in the wind. Those branches will be laden with seeds soon, after the wind does its job of pollinating the flowers.

And, inevitably, there are still patches of snow in the sheltered places, not so white by now, and more than a little the worse for wear. What we need is a good rain to wash everything clean.

And on that note, be careful what you wish for: the clouds are starting to roll in and we may have that rain before too much longer. I think it’s time to head back to the house, where it’s warm (the wind is starting to come up, blowing down off the hills where it’s still quite chilly) and dry.

And that’s that.

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About Robert M. Tilendis

Robert M. Tilendis lives a deceptively quiet life. He has made money as a dishwasher, errand boy, legal librarian, arts administrator, shipping expert, free-lance writer and editor, and probably a few other things he’s tried very hard to forget about. He has also been a student of history, art, theater, psychology, ceramics, and dance. Through it all, he has been an artist and poet, just to provide a little stability in his life. Along about January of every year, he wonders why he still lives someplace as mundane as Chicago; it must be that he likes it there.
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