The sun broke through the thin, whispery clouds, and its reflection in a pool of water collected from the previous night’s rain caught my eye. Suddenly the day was bright and the morning as clear and joyful as hope itself.
It was Easter morning in a year that will surely be marked down as the Year of the Great Pandemic in the officially approved histories of our time. Assuming, of course, there is no change in the near futures of those who shape and transmit “history” to their liking, in accordance with their preferred ideologies. Unlike every other Easter dawn in my life, our church would hold only a virtual service via its website on that perfect day.
So, I was walking on a crisp sunny morning, soaking up the bold, dewy colors of spring before returning home to watch the service. The flowers were blooming, looking for all the world like miniature stars in a green, leafy firmament.
At a pond near our house, the ducks were carrying out their annual rite of spring. Ducklings were hatching, and I had been keeping track of one particular hen and her brood. So far, all five ducklings have survived. The pond looked like a calendar print of an April morning. Turtles were sunning themselves on the still damp rocks, squirrels played on a tree limb, and ducks streamed slowly across the pond’s smooth surface, their shadows following in silhouette. Morning’s dance.