T.

It's February -- finally. I've left stygian January
in my wake. Light ekes in, a minute or two each
day, slow slow slow.

A few years back I happened upon The Clare Island Survey
by the poet Sean Lysaght while perusing the shelves at Kennys
in Galway (when they still had shelves of books). I was
delighted to make his acquaintance last summer when
he gave a reading in Westport (where he lives) to celebrate
the publication of Venetian Epigrams, his translations
of Goethe. His blog, Stonechat, is a precise and evocative
observation of the birdlife of his landscape, and a blog
I return to when Ireland calls. I am especially enamored
of thelast line of this entry, as I feel that same impatience
growing by the hour:

Chaffinch

The song of the chaffinch is more discursive. My provisional

phonetic translation is as follows: No, really, this is how
we freely spend our time puzzling things. The phrase can be
repeated as often as the weather allows. I heard it
yesterday morning in a small copse of hazel near my house.
The morning was very mild and you could sense the birds'
impatience to be getting on with the business of spring.