There is an old New England saying that March comes in like a lion and out
like a lamb. The lion of March has settled
it’s icy gaze on this corner of the world. The temperature hovers just below
freezing, so that when the wind whips in off the bay it is an assault on your
being. I wait until midmorning to take Flix out for a walk, hoping that buying
time might also buy us warmth.
We walk quickly to the little hilly
park by the bay. A garage down the road has “Echo Bay” painted on it’s front in
fading blue letters, and although I’m not sure if that is the actual name of
this area that is what I have been calling it in my mind. I’m house and
dog-sitting, and this place is refreshing. The tinkling of boats can be heard
where the wind is blocked, and it has an echo of summer on this frozen day.
I throw sticks for Flix as we come
across them and she chases them with abandon. Most she returns to my feet, but some
she immediately rips apart, tearing her head back and forth and sending splinters
flying. The universe favors disorder, and apparently so does Flix. The lion of
March growls its approval.
We wander to the top of the rocky
hilltop by the parking lot, and continue our game. The silence is
broken when a car screeches into the parking lot, a light blue minivan. A woman
parks it right in the middle of the lot, and on the bayside a back seat window
rolls down. A young girl sticks her head out the window and yells something
unintelligible to the ocean; the ocean does not move. She yells it one more
time, her voice a snarled mix of scream and cry, then the window rolls up and
the minivan moves slowly away. I watch it go, gripping Flix’s leash, then turn my
gaze to the ocean. It’s vastness has absorbed the odd moment already, just
waves rolling and breaking as ever.
Flix has been leading the way so
far but now I steer her to the crumbling boathouse at the mouth of Echo Bay. I
feel a kinship to this patched home of boats. Flix and I stand at the railing
that marks the boundary between concrete and ocean and I watch a flock of birds
floating on the water. They are diving in and out of the bay, moving quickly
about some business. The Lion growls and the wind turns sharper, and I turn
away from the bay and head towards my temporary home. Flix strides obediently
at my side, and although she does not show it when I reach down her fur is
cold. We pick up the pace and retreat home, out of the den of the lion, at
least for now.
Tonight as I polish these thoughts
from last week I pause my music for a moment because something sounds
different. It’s raining, driving rain, the rain that announces itself
intrusively. It’s the very rain that cancelled the hike MontAnia and I had
planned for today, but I can’t help but enjoy it. After the long silence of
winter the North East is waking up again. I can almost hear the sounds of
future camp fires popping, loons calling, and leaves crunching beneath boots
between the rain drops. I’m sure the lion of March is only catnapping, but the
smell of wet earth is welcome tonight.
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| All photo creds to MontAnia |
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