“What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.”
― Kobayashi Issa, Poems
Spring arrived early this year but barely made a ripple in the southern atmosphere as it painted our world in pastels, a relief considering the thrashing we took in the late winter months. The cherry trees in the yard bloomed bigger and the petals fell earlier leaving behind small orbs of dark red, eagerly devoured by chipmunks scampering though the branches like tiny acrobats. The testosterone ravaged birds arrived, puffed up and singing loudly, happily, uncontrollably. They staked their territories, built finenests of pine straw and dried moss, cleverly disguising them in the leaves above the bird feeders lined like smoke stacks along the branches. The turf wars began. The squirrels, ready to feast at the tables set before them were shamed into retreatby the flurry of beating wings, warriors suspended in mid-air. The rains came…
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