rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2006-03-13 04:40 pm
rejectomorph) wrote2006-03-13 04:40 pm
Waiting
Maybe the worst thing about the day is that it keeps bringing to mind a line from The Eagles' Desperado: "The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine...." Any day that makes me think of Eagles lyrics is dismal indeed, and not in a good way.
Rooftops are still scabby with patches of unmelted snow, graying under the slow clouds of the gray sky that doesn't even have a bright spot to mark the location of the declining sun. It's warm enough to keep the melt-water slowly trickling out the downspout, but just barely. The pink flowers on half of the peach tree have died, and those on the other half look to be nearly rotted. All the flowers on the sourgrass are gone. The buds on the more fortunate mulberry tree remain closed after two weeks, waiting to flower. A few small, gray birds perch on the bare branches. What happened to spring?
The crows are out there bickering with one another. The acorn woodpeckers have made themselves scarce. The horizon is lost in cold haze. I'm getting impatient. It's time something came out of that sky.
Rooftops are still scabby with patches of unmelted snow, graying under the slow clouds of the gray sky that doesn't even have a bright spot to mark the location of the declining sun. It's warm enough to keep the melt-water slowly trickling out the downspout, but just barely. The pink flowers on half of the peach tree have died, and those on the other half look to be nearly rotted. All the flowers on the sourgrass are gone. The buds on the more fortunate mulberry tree remain closed after two weeks, waiting to flower. A few small, gray birds perch on the bare branches. What happened to spring?
The crows are out there bickering with one another. The acorn woodpeckers have made themselves scarce. The horizon is lost in cold haze. I'm getting impatient. It's time something came out of that sky.
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Our secret love for The Eagles is only slightly shameful, as it is motivated by avarice, their recordings being one of the state's major exports to the benighted regions between the coasts. Be assured, however, that it is The Eagles as a commercial institution we secretly love, not the band itself, its music, nor its members (them, we secretly think of as assholes.)
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