Tonight is cold, in the fickle way of Spring. I left festivities early. There are no fires lit tonight. I did not stay for ceremony; I did not dance the Maypole. It is cloudy, and will rain. In my reverie, I do not even notice if there is a moon.

I am standing, alone, at the edge of the swamp, wrapped in solitude. For whatever reason, the peepers are silent. Around me the briars and brambles are putting out new leaves, the tender young greens growing in the yard turning bitter as th... read more