Evans’ Rag

Vol 6 Issue 3

The boys at Coole Lake, County Galway — photo by D, ©1991

Not like this winter was bitter cold—Layla growled about a bit of snow that came along once for her to wriggle down a hill on her back, legs waving in the air, but really, not nearly enough to satisfy her artic soul—nor my pseudo one. The Washington Post writers kept saying, wait, wait, it’s coming! With the world exploding, simple stories about snow help journalists dream about more than living with what’s before us.

The geese are busy honking about love—which they do to a precise schedule—and the crows are getting impossibly annoying, like loud concert goers who wander out from the concert hall still celebrating. What do crows have to—OK—crow about? Gangs of them are wheeling tree to tree. Probably ten crows to a single goose. At this point in the season, they are out-trumpeting the geese.

Crocuses are poking up on time, as are the perennially hopeful if ill-timed daffodils.

Ukraine is as desperate as it’s ever been, and the novice Speaker of the House is fucking with their survival because his string’s being yanked by a New York con artist.

If this were a Shakespeare play, Donald would be on his deathbed begging Ivanka, er, Cordelia, forgiveness for his egomania. That we in the States are still afflicted with self-centered Boomers—I for one apologize, though New York City has a lot to answer for, letting that man escape Queens.

Not so much to look forward to, except the longer days of spring, but I refuse to bow down. Reading John Weiss’s short story about the indomitable gives me hope, as so many of his stories do.