The ice on the town pond turned gray over the last day, punk ice.
Naturally, at least for me, it took me to the classic life and death question posed by Clint Eastwood in ``Dirty Harry'': `` `Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you punk?''
In the case of punk ice, I think the question is very germane. I do not touch punk ice.
Another gloriously lively morning. Yes, one where I feel lucky to be alive.
Mourning doves called on all sides as Lady, our family's mutt, and I set out. Robins called from trees and hopped around grassy areas.
The dawn was spectacular as we passed the ball field on the edge of town. (Hello, Charles Demuth.)
Cold enough over night, in the upper 20s, that I figured the mud, standing water and General Muck (Hello, Matt Spiegel) would be frozen enough to allow us to stretch out an extended ramble.
I was right and it brought good rewards.
On the far end of the extended ramble, I photographed my first cardinal of the year signifying from the top of a tree. And the first killdeer of the year skittered around the west side of the north old clay pit.
Canada geese raised a racket on the lake to the west. Three geese muddled around on the ice of the north pit. Four did the same on the south pit.
I was surprised to see that the shorelines barely gave way yesterday and were refrozen this morning. They will really give way and maybe even corrupt the general ice by the end of the day or tomorrow.
Back in town, as we turned to come down Station Street, the just-risen sun caught us just right so Lady and I cast long shadows down the street as though we were cinematic badasses on the way to a duel at dawn.
Back home, a Eurasian collared-dove called down the street.