I got home late last night—around one in the morning. I took Chester out for a walk in the meadow. The moon was two nights past full and the world was lit with a light both warm and cool.
Our meadow is on a south-facing slope of a low mountain who’s name I should know, overlooking a wide valley with a long dark ridge on the other side a mile and half away. The moon hung boldly in the south.
I stood in the moonlight in the meadow while the dog made his inspection of the perimeter, his collar and tags jingling intermittently. I heard the soft rush of late night cars on the highway a few miles away. I heard small sleepy choruses of spring peepers down in the valley. Strange night birds were calling in the trees behind me. And there was something else.
I listened more intently, closed my eyes, blocked the traffic, ignored the peepers, tuned-out the birds. It was a trickle of water, a slow trickle—the sound of a tiny, tiny brook babbling on and on about some mad mission to get to the bottom of things. It was all around me, like I was standing in a wide, shallow stream.
I listened with my eyes closed for who knows how long. It was the water from the previous day’s rain slowly making its way down the mountain, seeping through the meadow grass on it’s way to the creek at the bottom of the valley.
When I opened my eyes, Chester was silently at my side, my philosopher dog in the moonlight, listening to the water and the birds and the sounds of spring.
And April begins.