Spring Shows Up

It is only the story ... that saves our progeny from blundering like blind beggars into the spikes of the cactus fence. The story is our escort; without it, we are blind.
Chinua Achebe, Anthills of the Savannah

We greet spring differently.
Yesterday I drove through a patch of "flooded" road—hoping the car knew enough to keep moving. Half a mile further a field remained submerged with the river's overflow. I pulled over to watch two men who stood in the calf high water. Because I spotted a woman with a camera I took out my camera and walked to where the woman stood. One of the men had a bow and was shooting at carp. In a few moments they caught their first carp. It seemed a rather barbaric way of fishing.
"They spawn in the spring," said one man.
"Like the shallow water," said his friend.

The carp ended up in the back of a pick-up truck.
"Do you eat them?" I asked.
"Naw, the water's polluted with mercury."

Today my neighbor's tree bloomed. The first tree on my block to open up and announce spring finally sashayed in to stay. Two of us stood in front of the tree—smiling.