i turn my collar to the cold and damp

soggy and puddled. we search for puddles on the walk home from grandmamas. jude peeks down through his hood as henry whacks the cloudy water with sticks, one in each hand, a steady slapping beat. my pants are spattered and students are coming so i herd them on. it’s cold and i think about black coffee and the swirl of cream in a cloud. the spin and tap of my spoon. the first hot sip.

along the mossy sidewalk the uneven bricks make great gullys of water, small rivers on which we send twigs sailing, miniature oceans splashed with a rogue wave caused by boots and sticks and pieces of brick.

it’s spring, the time for sog puddle walks, for yellow raincoats and green umbrellas.

and we’ll have another walker soon. jude pulls him up at the couch and walks his way back and forth up and down along side of it. he uses one hand to hold himself up at the couch and the other to reach out to grab at things, at henry, at me. he bounces on his soft white feet and laughs. henry laughs. i secretly cry. what will i do with two boys running around as fast as their legs can carry them? the walking is the beginning of the end. running, skipping, dancing. and then what? i saw a fresh baby today and gasped at the recollection of how quickly jude has become a mover, a baby dancer walker.

henry’s hair. it curls in the watery day. he sleeps it into a fuzz. he moves it around with inexperienced fingers. when it is wet it slips down in a long golden strand past his neck, between his shoulder blades. so glorious. call him samson if you must, he’ll not have a haircut for years to come. one can only get away with such craziness of the hair for a very short time. let it be.

something springy:

`This has been a wonderful day!' said he, as the Rat shoved off and took to the sculls again. `Do you know, I`ve never been in a boat before in all my life.'

`What?' cried the Rat, open-mouthed: `Never been in a--you never--well I--what have you been doing, then?'

`Is it so nice as all that?' asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him.

`Nice? It's the ONLY thing,' said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant forward for his stroke. `Believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing,' he went on dreamily: `messing--about--in--boats; messing----'

`Look ahead, Rat!' cried the Mole suddenly.

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.

`--about in boats--or WITH boats,' the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. `In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. Look here! If you've really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?'

The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions. `WHAT a day I'm having!' he said. `Let us start at once!' – the wind in the willows, k. grahame