I meant to take the dog for walkies before dark, but I farted around listening to Amy Winehouse songs on youtube and just didn't make it out.
Just as I was raving two days ago about how much I adore nasty violent weather, nature served up a spring day on Wednesday that was so heart-breakingly lovely that for an instant I considered re-canting my prior curmudgeonly statements. Pulling into the alley late in the afternoon, I looked straight ahead but was dazzled by the come-hither aroma of honeysuckle nearby, wafting through the open windows.
I finally hooked the doglet up to the lead at about 9pm, and we set out down the street. The night was cool but not cold, and as quiet as I suppose it gets in a city. There was curiously little traffic as we walked and turned along the greenbelt that crosses our street. Doglet rubber-banded in and out the full length of her 16' retractable leash, sniffing the ground, marking a few spots and occasionally catching the trail of something fierce.
The bank of trees at the back of the greenbelt wends far from and near the footpath, and as it reached its nearest point, that scent was there again: the glorious heady sweetness of honeysuckle. I stopped and plucked a blossom, and tried to remember the mechanics of extracting the drop of nectar. How long has it been-- 30-some years? I made a hash of the first bloom, then tried another with no success. It was too dark for the delicate operation, so I grabbed a handful of blossoms and vowed to try them in better light.
In the yellow cone cast by the streetlamp at the corner, I pulled the bottom off a bloom, tugging the slender stamen back through the tube of the flower, a single teeny drop of nectar hastening along its shaft. One taste and my mouth filled with sweetness, reminding me of the flavor of summers of yore. I remember running through clover and how my bare feet always seemed to find the bee in the path, and oh, how I'd cry as a little caldera arose around the sting.
I turned for home along the sidewalk littered with the lacy black cutouts of tree shadows in the moonlight. I didn't sing at the Met. I didn't win the lottery. I had something better: this night was mine.
The wine which through the eyes is drunk
At night the moon pours down in floods.
Moon-drunk from Pierrot Lunaire