The Easter Stick

We woke to a skiff of snow again this morning. The day unfolded in shades of gray, with brief bouts of sunglasses.

I walked anyway, binoculars that are older than I am hung hopefully around my neck, but there was little in the way of excitement to be spied. A nice flight of common mergansers and a pair of cinnamon teal were as dramatic as it got. Oh... and there was one small beaver in a place I don't usually see beavers.

An unusual number of family groups roamed "my" trail... presumably digesting their holiday indulgences. When I noticed hordes of jittery kids in these feral flocks it dawned on me that aside from a virtual trip to an Australian purveyor of Easter Bilbies, I hadn't even seen a single candied critter this season. No bunnies, no chicks. No marshmallow peeps in unnatural colors. No pastel-colored baskets filled with plastic grass. No malted milk eggs. No jelly beans. No chocolate. Have I really been so removed from the rest of the world lately?

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. In fact, I am feeling quite smug about dodging yet another sugar-infused, consumption-driven, bloated, commercial, retail fest masquerading as a holiday. (Don't hold back, Sherrie. Tell us how you really feel.) But I still felt compelled to celebrate the day.

So I did. The trail gave up a lovely piece of twisted old rabbitbrush stem to draw and that seemed sweet enough and holiday enough for me.