Dear Wigleaf,

Spring's happening here in New England, the familiar procession of flowers
announcing themselves—crocuses & daffodils, all manner of tulip, orchards of apple, pear, & plum, wild geraniums deep in the woods, trillium,
foxglove, lady-slippers. The first ticks & mosquitoes, too. Ruby-throated hummingbirds flitting to blooms. Dragonflies. Snapping turtles. Geese going bonkers in the fields. The all-night screaming orgies of spring peepers in the marsh back of the house. Tree pollen like a motherfucker. I don't know. It happens every year. What I want is for spring to blow me apart—like a tornado making splinters of a barn. What I want is for spring to swoop down like a red-tailed hawk & snatch me in its talons & break my neck & pick at my flesh & stuff hunks of my guts into the gaping mouths of its offspring. I want to be lusted after. I want to lust. I mean, sure, I'm a bald 40-something with bad hips & a paunch, but in spring what's it matter? You think I care? When that first big thunderstorm comes rumbling in to clear the air—you know what? I'm the hot asphalt its raindrops sizzle on.

Yours,

Steve



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