Just when there seems as if there is nothing more to say, life happens.
I cannot see him, but I hear the pileated woodpecker rapping at the chamber door of my brain. He is busy at the ancient maple across the street, relentlessly drumming for insects that have woven tunnels into its gnarled bark. Or perhaps a nest is on the woodpecker’s mind, for Spring is surely on its way and man with all his knowledge and intelligence cannot compare to instinct.
Other weblog writers have beaten me to report the signs of seasonal change. I seem to have a need to cling to time past. Yet there is a mapping out of mankind that is undeniable and constant, and the first robins have landed, the morning is no longer silent grey but filled with song and sun-painted color and I can no longer ignore the changes.
The rapping, tapping goes on. And Edgar smiles.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology