Erie is warming up. The past week we had several days of sunshine, one night of snow, and now we’re having some rain. I find I miss the sound of rain, which brings me back to sweet memories of evergreen Oregon.
Winter in Erie is a long, gray, cold affair. All the trees have lost their leaves. Storm winds often howl all night, swinging branches rubbing and beating against each other, a roar of sound like angry gods. It sounds like an airport. These Pennsylvania trees are hardy and stand up against the beating. The moisture-rotted maples of Oregon would never survive here.
Snow on the ground and cloud cover overhead reflect the city lights. It’s soothing on a still night to watch snowflakes float down to blanket the ground, but it seldom gets dark. I miss the dark, dark nights in Oregon and the canopy of brilliant stars that reminded me of my insignificance and my uniqueness.
I wake to a variety of birdsong I’ve never heard before. The Robins have returned, bright-breasted and hungry.
The first leaf buds are beginning to open. Bulbs give up their substances sending up leaves to consume the light from our beautiful sun, the ball of fire that gives us light and life and warmth. I yearn to lie naked beneath him. Come, warm sunshine. Bring this dull town back to life.
