Tadpoles

 

March 30, 2022

Planted ironweed, milkweed, joe-pye from the packets the lady in Tennessee sent. I want giant flowers, that will hold up the sky when it begins to sag. That’s all the planting I can do until I buy something else, or until it’s time to sow annuals. Dug a new bed for the ironweed, which involved intensified war against the honeysuckle vines. Rain came in the night, an added blessing. 

Rested on the front porch for a while. A hawk appeared out of the barrier trees. I hoped with all my heart that it was Sweetboi, but the body language was wrong. This hawk was cautious, faced away from me, stayed in the shade. When she fluttered off I saw the she was a Cooper’s hawk. I saw one Cooper’s before, flying beside a barn in Ohio. The light around her was blue. 

When I returned from choir, a box sat on the porch. Investigated, it proved to be the bull tadpoles I’d ordered for the pond. I thought about waiting until morning, but couldn’t make the tadpoles languish in plastic bags all night, so down to the benighted pond we went. It turned out to be an experience of odd perspective and embracing darkness. In the weird ambient light, the garden seemed to be enormous, to stretch on forever. All was motionless, silent, except me slitting open the bags and easing the creatures into the black water. All was profoundly serene, except for that one nerve that kept on the lookout for bears.