I walk the neighborhood surrounding my grandson's school, waiting for the bell to ring. I find a fledgling pussy willow bush blossoming and a small iris pushing its way through redwood chips. An Iowa spring is a cruel, fickle season, a combat zone for young green things and perhaps the small iris will make it and then again not. Although our hearts are light as we walk through these melted pools we know that next week it all could and most likely will come crashing down as the polar snows reclaim our countryside.
|Anybody need a meat grinder?|