Or, a view from the Point: the peninsula extending from the north side of the Lake, opposite Bethesda Fountain. On its western side, the top of the Point drops steeply down, into the Willowy tangles of the Oven, a bit of misplaced sky reflecting in the adjacent bay.




May ends today, leaving those vague weeks of June to finish Spring, as reckoned by the Sun. Still a bit of yellow to the greens, still some late flowering Lindens, and imports, yet to bloom. Still Spring, but the rush is over, accelerated by the brief, mid-month heat wave. The waves of migrating birds have slackened; a single female Wilson's was the only warbler I found on Memorial Day. I'll take that as a sign. Of what, I'm not quite sure.

This Spring's birding season was my first trip through that cycle: a once in a lifetime experience. I was too caught up in it to cover everything else properly. A birder confided that, in the thick of the migration, she feels the birds will never leave. But that\'s the way of ecstasy: a moment of eternity. That's why we always seek to return to it.

The birds will return in the Fall, though not in breeding plumage. Already I'm seeing the local fledglings: speckled Robins, and dour Starlings. In the meantime, attention turns to subtler things, and grosser, too. I'll try to round up a few images, to fill the gap between here and Summer. I need to realign my point of view, to look again at what stands still, no longer keyed to every flitting movement. Maybe in some motionless domain I'll find a clue to an ecstasy that does not end.