Headier than whiskey in the blood, the hearts out here are thrumming because the wind is shaking everything alive. A flock of Field Sparrows, riding the dried spears of stalks, sing away from us as if they were smooth river stones hurled low into the tree line. The dogs have become wild. Her front legs and paws tucked under her chest, Luna flies up and out of the tall grass. Wolfie spins and spins, waiting, returning, hustling me deeper into the field. Two enormous Red Tails, facing north, wings partially folded, ride the gusts, and for a moment to my giddy delight remind me of Klingon Battle Cruisers.
If I could join them, I would be able to see far away to the Blue Mountains of the Appalachians upon whose washed down rubble this field rests, all that remains of peaks that once rose three miles or more into empty sky. I wear gloves, the first time since March, but on mornings like this, wailing, inarticulate, all smiling, catch-in-the-throat-mornings, the earth feels born again in the cold. What could be better than this ancient world?