Catching up on two weeks worth of travel, as I’m steadily making my way up the East Coast and towards Canada. Spent a few days in Pennsylvania, where Breeze got a new set of tires. It has to be good weather as they can’t put the trailer into their service bays, so they do the tire changing outside.
I driveway surfed with my friends, Peg and Larry, she of the fantastic gardens and this time around, the tulips were on show.
From there, it was a one-night stand in the Poconos, where Spring has so far not yet appeared but the last of the 2017 leaves made a nice display.
A few hours of driving through sun, rain, 94F heat and much traffic landed me in Kingston, New York for an evening with friends I’ve known 35 years or so. We all sailed on Clearwater back in the day and so it was a lovely evening of catching up, sharing memories, and discussing current events. I had a beautiful spot across the street from the house (thanks, Gregg and Emma!) and much enjoyed the daffodils and the bird songs the next morning before I hit the road.
An hour or so later, and suddenly, Breeze was in the company of her siblings!
Five Alto 1743s in a row, three of them blue! Such fun to camp this way, and we also had two more 1743s and one R-series Alto join in the weekend fun. The park was right on the Hudson River, so I got to see one of my favorite bodies of water for the weekend, which I quite enjoyed.
The park is only two years old, so they are still working on things, but the trail system is stellar: well-marked and through lovely forests.
I’m typing this entry listening to the birds singing in my friend’s yard outside Boston, on my way north to the MA/NH border. All the way up, from PA to NY and now MA, the birdsong has been the music of my morning and I absolutely love it. Flowers are spring, yes, but bird song is SPRING!
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.
A Thousand Mornings, by Mary Oliver