Trees, this time of Spring, begin to grow more and more noisy birds. The wind once again learns how to play the chimes. The birds learn again how to play the wind. We, on the other hand, remember all of this from before. Like last night at dusk, birds skimming low over the lake. The sun begins to lift itself higher and higher. There is no sorrow for the slow death of Winter. Daffodils and forsythia attend its funeral, and we are comforted once again by the color yellow and red-winged blackbirds. We know there is some strange energy in the air, no matter where we are. Every year we want it to become part of us, to remove rocks forever from our eyes. So pray, dear memory, we may forget the past. And chant at dawn the odd words of our waking dreams: I do not remember this, I do not remember anything like this.