Blessing the House on the Wrong Day
I sit on a thick layer of brown, crumbling leaves, looking up at tight buds on a canopy of trees. Somehow, although the season is wrong, I know where I am, though I don’t know how I got here: there is no canoe in sight. I’ve only ever been here in the winter, when Crystal Lake is thick with ice and it’s possible to make one’s way through deep snow to this tiny island, travel the circle of its shore, and walk back, all within a couple hours. I do this every year. Today, it’s hazy, the sun sending thin rays of light through wispy fog. I’m wearing a light jacket and am comfortable enough, though I can feel the damp ground beneath me. Birdsong, loud and insistent, provides background music, until I hear the distinct call and response of cardinals, the only birds whose song I know for sure. I look around for a red wing, pink tail feathers–but the birds are hiding well. Then, I hear a sudden, rapid rustling in the distance, and a doe appears, almost skidding to ...