Charles Peek

Out along the last curve in the brick walk the grass has begun to green, with the freezing cold and coming snow its certain fate. The cranes make the same mistake, fields of red capped heads attest their arrival just before the worst blizzard of winter makes it impossible to tell the field from the river. And we, too, have known these mortal mishaps, miscalculated our time, found ourselves out of step, arriving too early, staying on too late, misjudging the nearness, the vengeance of the storm. The cranes, the grass, they tell us: this can go on for millions of years.