I took my little love with her new short hair down to the creek behind the library. The warm was so pleasant even the animals were out enjoying it. We saw a heron with a grey and ragged cloak. He must have been digesting a meal, standing of some sticks and feeling the warm breeze in dappled shadow like an ancient wizard. We saw the painted turtles shining in the sun, a mallard with a lame right wing, some little beavers or other kind of furry water rodents—the mysterious water squirrel, rarely seen. One came toward the mallard’s island hospital and was pecked away. All sorts of little birds went about their little business, under the bridges and through their railings, out over the reeds, among them, everywhere piercing the air. We also saw the catfish (I think they’re carp again) sliding like shadows alone and in schools. They have been spawning like blogs and now the spring-spawned, short and lithe mouth at the surface, moving in the medium of their sins while sinister below go great ones gliding who came through the cold mud of winter, surviving in the dark, deep places.