It's raining.
The back yard has fairly exploded with springtime. Every tree bar two is covered in pale pastel flowers and equally soft leaves, and against the house an eruption of yellow takes the shape of low-sitting bushes. Autumn's brown hovers around the edges still, providing a natural frame for all of the new season's colour and verve.
Driving back from South Carolina I could only think of how much I didn't want to leave, and how little I wanted to come back to Pennsylvania despite being eager for so much here. There will always be something of the escapist in me. I love new, dynamic, unsettled. I love going and coming back to change, and I love going again, never staying in one place long enough for heartbreak or discontent or loneliness to take hold. If there's one lesson I've learned it's that drifting lets no one stop for too long to see inside your soul, and never putting down any lasting roots means that nothing can be severed and tossed to the wind.
The season more than makes up for it, though. If I can't bolt, the world around me will at least change and bring with it something of the notion of a fresh start, and that will be enough.
There is a pair of cardinals at the feeder in the back yard, and a red-headed sparrow.
My heart warmed when I found an unopened container of old-fashioned oats in the cupboard this morning. I do like roaming, but there's something beautiful about being remembered in the shopping list when I'm not around.
Beautiful words, I tell you, beautiful words.
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