Dormant. View from window is that of neutral tones and Hadley Common - mud, snow & grass gone yellow - slate roof tops & silvery oak trunks - white houses and splintered fences arranged beneath powder blue sky and chalk-smudge clouds, centers grey, edged in muted pink. After lunch, walk down West Street to the Connecticut - scent of cigar mingles with sweet organic hints of spring - look left, look right, ah-ha, there he is, the Old Farmer with the MacIntosh cheeks is making his daily rounds, smoking & smiling.

Oatmeal cookie & river overlook from high grassy dike, my eyes follow the massive super-cooled flow as it snakes darkly westward, then turns south to slip away behind a wall of bare branches - onward toward Old Saybrook and Long Island Sound, backwards through time & place - into amethyst tinged memories - of grade twelve, Tintern & textbooks. On tippy-toes - eyes strain in effort to see as far as I can...

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreath�d horn.