There
is a wooden fence that runs along the eastern side of Grove Street separating
the road from the large field that years ago used to be cultivated farm land.
Now it remains as a fallow field, given over to the slow successional changes
of seasonal progress.
The sidewalk
skirts next to the split rail, and in the morning dawn, seen from a point on
the walk, the field is backlit with diffuse golden light made ethereal by the
dewy fog that rises from the new growth. From this place, it is possible to
imagine Paxton at any point in time, I like to believe, for there are no
houses, wires, towers or other indication of human intrusion. There is only the
field and forest that borders in the distance.
This
morning a mockingbird was perched on one of the split rail posts, and it was
singing a dozen different songs as joyously as I have ever heard. I have no
idea if it was calling for need or pleasure, but for my part I want to believe
that this bird is also just content to simply celebrate spring’s full arrival
in the field so beautiful.
Notes:
Rose-breasted
Grosbeak arrives at feeder
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