A simple leaf lies next to the keyboard.  Unlike most springtime foliage, it is a dark red, from a maple tree in our front yard.  There are five perfect toothed lobes, main vein down the center of each, lesser lines branching off.  It is small, still perfect, undamaged by insects.  It displays a miracle complete in itself.  It represents infinite miracles of my cosmos.  I usually ignore it, and almost everything else.

To combat complacency, I force myself to adjust my vision.  Seeing with “fresh eyes” requires a different kind of concentration _ immersion in sensation rather than logic.  Academic descriptions are not sufficient.  Ecstasy of the moment requires removal of blinders which I must normally use to ignore all except which is “important” or “necessary.”  When I open to detailed appreciation, I may be too blinded, stunned, and helpless to get out of the way of an oncoming truck.

When counting one by one, anything over a hundred is practical infinity.  This leaf is one of an infinite number on a tree that has been in our yard at least fifty years, maybe more.  It was mature when we moved in, thirty years ago.  I confess I often notice it only when avoiding branches while mowing, or cutting back ivy underneath, or raking leaves in the fall.  Most mornings I try to pay respect _ the images of foliage change dramatically in early sun, late sun, moon, clouds, fog, rain, wind, snow and every other possible meteorological condition and combination of effects.  But usually, it is just another tree in another suburban yard.

At this level, it is well to avoid deeper meditations.  Yes, this single leaf implies our entire universe.  Yes, I can imagine billions of years of evolution, thousands of years of human history, my very life and meaning _ all if I pursue logical trails of why and how this leaf exists here and now.  But fresh eyes require a different perception of surface beauty,  uncomplicated by intelligence and knowledge.

Visual artists try to communicate that mystery.  Successful artists begin by experiencing the overwhelming majesty of some selected viewpoint.  They manage the difficult translation to some media that is itself mysterious and beautiful.  Full achievement of that goal is doomed, but the artist has also been rewarded with the ecstasy of creative involvement.

Looking at art is exactly what we do to refresh our eyesight.  When I walk out of a museum, I often perceive the world anew, in different colors and combinations.  For a few moments, blinders are in my pocket.  I perceive colors in shadows, or forms in outline,  or abstractions of light.  Often I simply pay attention to what I have missed.

As an elder, I try to experience the world as if I were a child.  Amazement reigns.  A leaf, a tree, a butterfly can be enchantment.  In this fortunate state of mind, an often grumpy outlook has been redirected such that life seems gloriously new.  Our mind is always capable of casting illusions onto “reality,” fresh eyes help shape those filters into happiness. 

Modern civilization is fashioned of fossil fuels.  Coal and oil have enabled infrastructure, technology, and living standards for masses of people that were only dreamed of by tiny elites a few hundred years ago.  Realization that heavy use destroys the biosphere has hardly made a dent on emissions.  We enjoy our current conveniences and want to continue eating in the style to which we have become accustomed.  Complacent inertia strips mountainsides and pumps holes to spew carbon ubiquitously.

Almost infinite conflicting predictions concern changes ushered in by this pandemic.  I forlornly hope it becomes the proverbial “whap alongside the head” that knocks sense into society.  In particular, I wish our excessive use of combustion would slack off.  Recent health, economic, and social crises could help us to move on.  Imagine a world without internal combustion engines, few jet airplanes, many windmills and solar panels, insulated “green” homes and offices _ cleaner air each year.  And, yes, we could still work, eat, and be entertained.

Progression in that direction has been going on for some time.  Texas produces huge quantities of wind energy, homes are sheathed in solar panels, electric vehicles are mandated in places like China and Europe.  Various technologies proclaim breakthroughs week by week.  Younger generations had already rediscovered the joys of living in energy-efficient apartments in cities. The cost of “renewable” energy has been dropping dramatically.  But there seemed to be a very long slog ahead, simply because society was used to multiple vehicle households, high heating and cooling bills, work that demanded frequent travel, and all the other assumed requirements of life.   

Biology has a term called “punctuated equilibrium” which describes what may be happening.  Little changes keep creeping into an organism, until some dramatic environmental event makes a few of these changes so useful that its owner becomes dominant.  For example, if people begin to work a few days from home, there will be no need to own more than one car.  If trips are shorter and less frequent, small electric vehicles work just fine.  If solar panels lower energy bills at home and office they will multiply. 

All of such changes have cascading effects on industry.  Electric utility companies already notice a drop in power demand, but if homes really start to go off-line, the cost of maintaining an electric network of wires and transmission stations becomes exorbitant.  If fewer cars are used less often, the underfunded road network will wither and encourage rail bulk transport.  Work from home is likely for service industries, electronic connections finally leap to prominence over face to face business travel.  Many factories (filled with robotic labor) will relocate to places like deserts where solar power is cheap and frequently available.  The list is long and strange.  And once started, the progression is self-sustaining.  It becomes too expensive and annoying to fight trends _ just like the replacement of horse-drawn transportation in a decade or so. 

Although I hate yard crews because of noise, they are indicative of hopeful home trends  _  renting or sharing power equipment.   The same is true of using cleaning services.  Home delivery of goods is more power efficient than multiple individual vehicles making short trips.  Solar panels, efficient lighting, decent insulation and windows all cut down on energy use and save money.  These and other similar issues are all of a nature that becomes more asymptotically common _ fads which are good for the environment.  All of these have been given a giant boost by the pandemic lockdown.

Anyway, I am breathing clearer this year.  The air has rarely seemed so delicious.  Admittedly, in the last few weeks, traffic has returned and mowers and blowers resumed their roars.  Peace and quiet gone with the return of economic activity.  As everything gets back to “normal” I fear that all my hopes and dreams are only hopes and dreams after all.  We have learned nothing.

What nature remains seems to have adapted anyway.  I realize that my little locality does not represent the world, and my personal observation is hardly universal.  Yet local extinctions seem to have occurred, not only in reptiles like snakes and turtles, but in all species not cohabiting with man (e.g. gulls, raccoons, chipmunks, pigeons, rats, crows, dogs, cockroaches, etc.)  Insects are too sparse.  Thousands of plant species are gone with the snows of yesteryear.  Perhaps nothing can stop our march to sterility.

For a few moments, however, let me pretend there is a silver lining somewhere.  That a tipping point has been reached towards something better.  That trends aligned against fumes will begin a virtuous cycle that eventually ends smog forever.  I realize it is probably no more likely than any other fantasy of being saved by the supernatural, but I am grateful for any improbable fleeting vision of good to which I can momentarily cling.

Springtime in New York encapsulates revived youth.   Rejuvenation from seemingly lifeless barren landscapes begins in February, like a helpless newborn, with thrusting bulbs, swelling buds, and other tantalizing promises.  March represents the tiny baby stage, where amazing changes happen rapidly, but there is as yet no recognizable speech nor much motor coordination.  April breaks out as a cute toddler full of promise, but quickly morphs into a petulant May adolescent who alternately excites or disappoints with cold, or rain, or lovely days, or bright blossoms.  Ah, but then comes June.  A brilliant young adult out to change the world.

“Crisp” describes Huntington outdoors as June begins.  Foliage has not yet developed a patina of dirt, nor has it been ravaged by the stress of drought and depredations of insects.  Flowers bloom abundantly, tended by bees of various types.  Grass has a special emerald glow.  Everywhere there is a peculiarly clean odor of restlessness, often punctuated by clouds of scent from surprising vegetation. Waves of flowers have come and gone, always replaced by new ones.

Air remains crystalline, untroubled by the later humid haze and smog of summer.  Especially this year, distant views stretch clearly in sharp focus even to the far Connecticut shoreline.  Morning fog clears to bright clarity.  Occasional showers wash tenderly.  I take a deep breath, trying to appreciate the fact that our atmosphere exists, and that I can still take advantage of its often ignored wonders.

Early June floral displays are perhaps the most inspiring of all.  Although the cherry blossoms are long gone, and memories of tulips almost ancient, flowering shrubs are everywhere.  Fading azalea blossoms provide a thick coat of brilliance.  Rhododendrons explode with purple, white, and red cannon balls.  Over it all floats delicate pink and white dogwood.  Roses parade as if summoned by bugle calls.  Although the grand drooping plumes of purple wisteria have dried away, day by day another midsummer flower such as wild white daisies bursts on the scene.    

If spring seems a metaphor for hope, June is that hope realized.  What were merely dreams _ late evenings, swimming in salt water, lazy hazy times, vacation plans _ are available to our waking moments.  Yet it is not yet horribly hot nor humid, we do not need to seek shelter at midday, we can still take long pleasant walks without desperate rehydration.  And, mostly, all of this is still new.  Just like arriving at a carnival for the first time as a young child, nature is all flash and brilliance and thrilling mysteries.  We have had no time to become jaded, have not yet been bothered by mosquitoes, can relish each moment outdoors.

Solstice approaches in less than a month, the brilliant rays glint off morning dewdrops coating flickering grass blades.  Strong angles sparkle on waves, a magic canvas for boats large and small swarming into Long Island Sound.  Evenings linger almost too long for those of us exhausted by taking advantage of earlier dawn and the temptations of long walks.  Oh, and of course the various ambitions and chores and exercises newly available _ planting flower beds, mowing lawns, touching up the house, trimming shrubs.  Sun comes up as it goes down _ huge, fiery red, reminding us that it is indeed our true god.

June is a great time, even in bad times.  I sometimes think June exactly defines why I love this environment all year, in spite of its problems and climate.  But I must stop typing and run outdoors to breathe deeply and experience immersion once again ….

Traditional Memorial Day is martial in nature, with marching bands and veterans parading down flag-festooned streets as crowds cheer.  Media incessantly reminds us to remember sacrifices of all the brave people who have defended our way of life.  Slogans such as “freedom is not free” resound through the air. 

I respect the military in our important wars.  Those who fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and World War II did not do so for pensions and fast track into police forces later.  They were not planning a career.  They volunteered _ or were forcibly inducted _ to risk their lives and health into enemy fire and constant tension and disease.  What they did actually changed the way we live now.  Some of our other wars _ Mexican, Spanish-American, Korean, Vietnamese, Gulf _ have been of significantly less consequence.  And our current volunteer army is not much like our troops who fought the Nazi’s and Japanese.

This year is different.  Parades are banned.  Tiny gatherings are allowed at cemeteries which hold the remains of heroes gone.  Perhaps a few of us rethink who our current heroes are or should be _ what occupations and sacrifices are now most important to our way of life.  I wonder moreover if this particular holiday might be remembered as the end of a bygone era from a not too distant, totally changed, future.  Economic and social traditions and bonds are being stretched to and possibly beyond the breaking point.

Eras sneak up on you, with assumptions and an inertia that claims “this is how it is.”  And yet, history proves that eras can end, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a blink.  The American, French, Russian, Chinese revolutions took only a few years.  The Medieval, Renaissance, Industrial, and Computer took longer.  Today, of course, everything runs at warp speed, and possibly the next huge paradigm shifts in culture and civilization will do so as well.  Much can happen in just one year. 

Our current era, however many decades or centuries it has lasted, has been one of scientific discovery,  globalization of nature and culture, and massive population growth, some of it accompanied by more goods available.  There has also been severe consolidation of wealth, fragmentation of cultural goals into various fierce ideologies, and massive degradation of the environment.  Reporting of such changes has been practically instantaneous.  Above all, it has been an era dominated by the myth of American exceptionalism and Western capitalistic ideology.  Perhaps this is the moment when the world suddenly realizes, once more, that the emperor has no clothes.

No matter what historians claim about historic inevitability, nobody in the middle of a revolution can predict its outcome and effects.  That has not stopped modern prognosticators who claim work as we have known it will mutate and vanish, for example.  Visionaries conjure vast economic and social upheavals, some apocalyptic.  I (optimistically) think the only “safe” option here is to plan on the familiar world never quite returning, and possibly being shockingly unrecognizable, in less than five years.

After that, those who have time and energy to remember will no doubt gather at the future equivalent of a Memorial Day.  Toasts will be raised, the world as it once was nostalgically recalled, and (with luck) some kind of celebration held to cheer what came after.

People in the New York Metro area have been asked to remain mostly at home, a directive made easier by the abnormally cold and wet spring we have been enduring.  Watching flowers, birds, leaves, strong wind, constant showers, and other seasonal signs has been better accomplished from warm rooms or heated cars.  A brief dash, well bundled, is what most of us manage, even to view the tulips in the park where the show goes on even through the festival has been cancelled.

I am used to seeing goslings hatch around now, although they are often associated with me wearing shorts and tee shirt rather than heavy coat and ski mask.  But I noticed three broods following their parent along seaweed shoreline in howling winds at thirty two degrees.  A harsh way to be introduced to the world.  Meanwhile, I am observing nests being built in several bushes around the house, mostly protected from the elements, definitely hidden from the hawks.

Nature continues, regardless of what humans and weather may do.  Squirrels are chasing about, chipmunks are out of hibernation, bees and gnats and flies fill the air.  Birdsong is far more noticeable now that aircraft are absent. 

In spite of the drumroll of death, which is terrible, and “dire” predictions of the economy to come, and great angst about how society may change, this can be seen in some ways as a happy spring.  The air is clear for the first time in years.  The environment seems to be making a comeback.  Scenery far and near is incredibly beautiful.  We are reminded once more of the majesty and awe of existence.  Perhaps even my neighbors are bored enough to enjoy nature when they get tired of listening to grim media news.

I have lived in a deceptively secure and predictable world.  There is always food.  A child’s death is unexpected.  Old people think themselves young as they pass eighty years.  But not long ago, it was not so, and we were more like those geese.  Most children, like goslings, died before they were five.  People wore out fast, were old by forty, and incapacitated by sixty, an age which relatively few achieved.  At least a few times in every lifetime there were famines or plagues or wars.  We had hoped to be done with all that; it is jarring to suddenly encounter something like them, even here, even now.

An eternal human hubris is to perceive the world as unchanging, followed by the even more incredible belief that we control our lives.  We can certainly control our inner thoughts and mental existence, but as any survivor of any tragedy knows, much still lies beyond our power.  When change comes, especially awful change, it is hard or impossible to accept.  When good change occured, for the last fifty years or so, I have taken it for granted. 

Full spring now, cool perhaps, maybe too much rain, but glorious.  The annual visual spectacular repeats, and cycles of the seasons still comfort me.  I enjoy sky, wind, trees, flowers, cardinals, jays, robins, squirrels, and our dashing little chipmunk and (as long as I stay away from the TV) am incredibly grateful just to be aware. 

Our stucco house has brick decorations below the windows.  In this long semi-incarceration they came to my attention as I sat in the warming sun with little else to do.  And I thought how little real competence I have in my world. Any Sumerian laborer could probably make bricks and lay them better than I could.  In fact, of all my vast environment, I am capable in very few activities. 

This world of marvels is constructed of fragile relationships.  Experts and specialists mine and grow and plan and build.  Sometimes I impose a certain order, but mostly I simply accept the end result.  I can buy food, I can sit on a purchased chair, I can look at my house.  But I could no more grow my food, make my chair, nor build my house than I could regulate my internal temperature or mindfully digest my meals.  Magic surrounds and permeates my existence.

What competence have I attained in over seventy years?  Some fleeting and now irrelevant electronic coding.  Some upon-a-time ability to work collaboratively with others.  Mostly, even now, an ability to plan a little and react a lot as unexpected situations arise.  A bit of ability here, a bit there, none extraordinary.

Schoolday myths proclaimed the Jeffersonian joys of yeoman farmers.  Full independence on a self-sufficient homestead where everything was crafted by the owner _ an American metaphorical ideal.  Yet, like all childhood stories, that whole concept was flawed from the beginning.  No farmer mined iron and forged his own tools, built not only his gun but also the machines to construct the parts, ate only the produce planted and harvested by his own hands.  From the beginning, people specialized, gaining surplus from what they did best to pay for what they could not do at all.

Capitalism loves fluid roles which shun competence_ ideally, any worker can be replaced, nobody is indispensable.  That’s ok, because the associated lie is that with luck and hard work, anyone can succeed and prosper in anything.  A competent person rises to become wealthy, famous, and remembered forever.  Artisanal crafts are worn down to machine-capable rote tasks, with an interface anyone can perform.  Driving a car when first invented took a skilled chauffeur.

Retraining is a vicious pretense which proclaims that competence can be easily transferred.  Throw someone out of a job at which they have become competent for years and make them do (badly) something they have never encountered.   Also, sever all their current implicit connections _ lateral ties to fellow employees or clients for example.  Then let them go naked into the marketplace to start over.  Sixty year olds are treated as if they were fifteen.  This massive and intractable flaw in modern consumer capitalism is what will eventually lead to its overthrow.

Competence is not purpose.  One learns competence in reference to doing something, even if that something is as mundane as laying bricks.  It often takes years to become good at a task, when actions are all but unconscious and errors are intuitively avoided.  Competence most clearly shows when things go badly _ especially as tasks become more complicated.

Finally, competence does provide an element of pride and self-worth.  Who we are is inevitably tangled with what we do.  But the only competence any of us can keep with certainty is that of our approach to life.  It must be secure, flexible, and reliable.  Good luck with that … 

Silent Spring is not my reference.  Yes, the English language makes a clear difference between “noiseless” and “less noise,” but how should we define the noun?  I do not regard birdcalls, wind in trees, nor even the shouts of children as noise.  Leaf blowers, chain saws, automobiles, heavy construction, and low jet airplanes, on the other hand, are obnoxious intruders on the symphony of natural sounds.  This pandemic April has been a time mercifully free of human engine roars.

The sound of silence around here has until recently been missing.  All hours, every season, mechanical clamor is relentless from near and far, above and below, around and about.  But this month, enforced shutdowns have eliminated a lot of trucks and cars and planes and local projects.  I could sit outside and hear trees in the breeze, the taps of woodpeckers, the warning calls of bluejays.  Even occasionally the rustle of leaves as squirrels race through the underbrush and up branches.  Sometimes the buzz of fat early bumblebees drifted by.

Like Boccaccio’s Florence, much of affluent Huntington has fled to less infested places.  Traffic is abnormally sparse.  Many neighbors have gone South or West to visit friends or linger in vacation homes.  The less affluent remain behind, but they have temporarily been prevented from their normal loud activities (because the rich are not around to make them do so.)  There is often a surprising lack of pedestrians on our local streets, because the gloomy cold weather has also damped excursions.

In the last few days, however, demon-spawned yard crews have begun to erupt once more, with their insanely oversized infernal gas engines spewing smoke and commotion.  So far those episodes remain sparse and nearly tolerable, but it is a worrisome reminder of what must soon return.  All the more reason for me to savor quiet while it remains available.

Maybe, eventually, people will rethink the demands of civilization.  Up until this plague, there were only two ways to deal with noise pollution.  One was to huddle hermetically behind triple-pane never-opened glass and hide inside in peace and comfort.  The other was to outcompete the cacophony by blasting nearby noise of one’s own choice _ through earbuds or boomboxes or outside speakers.  I wonder if after this interlude, some folks may not come to enjoy natural silence.  But I suppose probably not.  Noise, like most pollution, spills into common space; one lout spoils the environment for everyone within miles.

For nearly the first time, crews are forbidden on Sunday.  Many people sleep in.  I had a wonderful walk through the nearby park, admiring the cherry blossoms, young leaves, and green lawn.  Red winged blackbirds have returned to the pond, to begin nesting amongst the reeds, not yet attacking anything that comes too near.  A blissful natural calm, reminding me of my youth in less crowded and far less raucous places.

Like everyone else, I ponder what comes next, what changes may occur.  Maybe the whole world will return to what it used to be, increasing noise and all.  If that be the case, I must treasure these noiseless moments never to return, as if I were on vacation from modern civilization.  I must open my door and visit the paradise that has so briefly interrupted everyone’s frenetic brass bands.

Flowers are sublime in April, especially if it is cool so that daffodils, forsythia, and tulips can linger.  Only memories of crocuses remain, but grass awakens.  Yet for all that beautiful and striking activity, it is deciduous trees such as maple, oak, hickory, and beech that steal the show. 

Some trees perform full acts.  Magnolia hogs any scene, except perhaps where mature cherry blossoms briefly filter clouds.  Dogwood and crabapple creep forth, sometimes bursting out in the right warm microclimate.  Gigantic tulip trees will soon sport blossoms that are rarely seen from below.

Have any child crayon winter and summer pictures, and you will demonstrate our innate understanding.  Winter trees are brown lines, summer’s are lush green lollipops.  Professional photographers and painters realize that identical vistas become entirely different.  What was once exposed is hidden, what had been a jagged horizon becomes nearly smooth.  It is often difficult to recognize the same place in pictures taken at different seasons.

Trees provide our most important spring metaphors.  Apparently visibly dead for months, they suddenly burst out in frantic activity and remake themselves into the very picture of life.  Except, of course, for the ones that do not, which is yet another important lesson.  Everyone at one time or another hopes to be like a tree that comes back from adversity, or like a tree that can sway in the frantic vernal wind without breaking, or like an ancient but mighty oak grown from a small acorn, or simply like a reliable companion which proves that _ appearances to the contrary _ it is not over yet.

Once leafed out , trees are exposed to danger.  A late snowstorm can break branches, as can the excessively strong winds of passing weather fronts.  That demonstrates how deceptively strong deciduous trees can be.  We have viewed their apparently fragile skeletons for months, and are surprised that such thin frameworks support an immense waving weight.  But if we think about it, much of our construction, our houses, our furniture depend on relatively light, strong. tough wood.

I once read that there was a measurable change in global atmospheric oxygen level when the great deciduous forests of the northern landmasses leaf out in spring.  I’m too lazy to verify it, but it sounds nice and might be true.  Certainly on a local level these trees cut pollution, remove irritants, provide welcome shade in summer, and are generally fine things to have about.

I could never dismiss beautiful flowers on evergreen azaleas, rhododendrons, privet, and hollies.  I would not ignore the spectacular blooms on forsythias and roses.  Conifers present swaths of grace all year long.  But the miraculous  transformation of groves of deciduous trees around Huntington in this season is a truly wondrous spectacle that I too often take for granted.

As the pandemic drags on, everyone shrieks “what next?”  Has the world changed forever?  Can Humpty Dumpty be repaired?  Is the modern industrial cornucopia destroyed leading us into a dark age of want?   Anxiety crests not merely because of terrible predictions, but also since all outcomes appear equally probable.  Dare we have hope?

The word “dire” has become a pandemic in its own right among talking heads and instant experts.  Truly “dire” outcomes have so far, fortunately, remained fictions.  The hospital system has not collapsed, people are not dropping dead in the streets, whole towns and industries are not being buried daily.   The shape of this disease is not that of world apocalypse.

I suspect that we may look back on this moment as the birth of reoriented individual philosophy,  just as the Victorian Belle Epoque was shattered by WWI and the Roaring Twenties collapsed with the stock market.  Those events in themselves were bad enough, but what genuinely changed forever were attitudes.  After 1917 nobody believed that the march of progress and enlightenment was inevitable; after 1929 the dream that everyone would become millionaires through stocks lay in ashes.

Messianic experts (of which I am not one) predict that future society will change in unimaginable ways.  Perhaps equality will reign, health care will rationalize, folks will nurture families, individuals will remold into sanity.  The lion will lie down with the lamb, manna will fall from heaven.  Me, no.  I suspect it will be much like rebuilding after a (minor) earthquake.  Rubble cleared, a few vistas completely new, much reconstructed to same appearance but with new inner structure.

Experts also intone that we flounder in the spreading mess of a broken egg that cannot be reconstructed.  Global trade, international travel, personal freedom are all about to vanish with the snows of yesteryear.  Me, no.  I think we merely accelerate the trends that were already clear: brick and mortar retail will reorient to entertainment and sales, for example.  Perhaps metered, paid, accountable work from home (as opposed the previous frenzy of unpaid work from home) will become more common.  I point out that, so far, populations have not been decimated, few people scarred forever.

In the meantime, a month or so in the worst hit areas has been like life in an offseason vacation resort rather than horrible end of world.  Yes, many old people have died, but still a relatively small percentage of elder population, an almost unnoticeable part of the work force and youth.  Inconvenience and financial worry have affected just about everybody, but there is still strong belief that normalcy will return sometime soon.

In fact, many supposed society-wide cultural changes are little different than those constantly occurring for all individuals as life events happen.  Getting married or divorced, losing or gaining a job, moving out or in, having a child, changing a career, medical emergencies, and so forth are all desperate times for anyone to go through.  Anyone deals with stuff like that periodically.  We are adaptable creatures.

Ordinary life has an inertia that is hard to change, and which is very tough.   A few days or even a month of change is not too hard to accept.  We relax, freed from routine and let cares and daily worries subside for a while (although these are soon replaced by others.)  But after a while we itch to “get back in the groove” or “get on with it.”  And, in most cases, within a short while we do in fact pick up exactly where we left off.  Perhaps this massive shut down is different.  A lot of stores and restaurants, for example, will never return.  But most of those were in difficult straits already _ we should not forget how often similar establishments turn over in the best of times.

Perhaps real changes will be subtle and only take effect over time.  People may resist taking on jobs, for example, that require frequent short trips when meetings can be done electronically.  Patterns of eating may shift to less fad and more comfort.  Even the “ultimate” goals of life may be reevaluated and result in new combinations of drive and purpose.  But few of these will occur in a flash of immediate enlightenment.

In this particular pandemic none of the physical plant has been destroyed.  Oh, transportation networks have been disrupted, some strongly and possibly forever.  Certain stores and restaurants will never return as they were.  But the airports and airplanes and ports and boats and roads and railways still exist.  Buildings remain strong and usable.  Even the subtle inter-weavings of supply chains are available in slightly different form.  It is not like a war zone, nor even a hurricane.  On the other hand, that was also true in 2008 and 1929.

Fortunately for Northern Hemisphere psyches, the worst seems to have happened at the end of winter.  Spring should provide some optimistic rays of hope.  Maybe not the worst of times, nor the best of times, but just the normal let’s adapt to whatever happens times.  Like always.

Living along a sheltered tidal bay provides opportunities to view multiple worlds.  The interface between earth and water in such a place is quite different, daily, than is the case with rivers, streams, or ponds.  Those may overflow once in a while, but here we have tides that require docks to be raised many feet, often ridiculously above sea level, other times all but submerged.  And, along the shoreline of Long Island, are “flats” composed of mud and sand.

Mudflats and sandbars may be wide or slim, full of grass (in summer) or filled with brown stubble, smooth or punctuated with rocks.  Fiddler crabs scurry about in warmer months, horseshow crabs dig hollows to lay eggs, clams squirt jets of water as one walks about, preferably barefoot.  Usually there are bird tracks, often overlaid with those of dogs and children.  Bits of flotsam and jetsam (look up the difference!) mark the high tide lines.  Where currents are right, moon and whelk shells pile up among those of oysters and clams, occasional dogfish eggs.  And, certainly, seaweed. 

Ducks and swans and geese and egrets and (in season) terns and cormorants float or stalk or dive as minnows breed in shallow water, and clams or periwinkles are exposed when water recedes.  Low tide provides spectacles of flocks either sitting around or playing nearly incomprehensible avian games.  Gulls float above it all, an occasional osprey cruises overhead carrying a fish back to its nest.  Varied hawks may wander over the bay far from their usual haunts in warm meadow updrafts, ignored by those below.

Right now, early spring, the flats awaken.  Green shoots spike through broken brown stalks.  Huge mud rafts reestablish root connections with foundational sand.  Sadly, I note they are diminished each year as water levels rise.  The floating detritus of decayed reeds form thick piles dictated by hidden currents _ exposed above the tideline they swarm with newly hatched insects.

The vast scene illustrates a symphony of transition.  Before the ice ages, none of this existed.  After the great melt, it will all be gone once again.  The ecology has undergone massive changes as people ruined a natural paradise seeking to make it more to their liking.  No more lobsters, hardly any oysters, seals and dolphins departed, birds scarce.  It remains incredibly beautiful, in spite of human forms forced on it by those wishing to live along the shore.

At low tide, rivulets wind their way into the distant waves as they form miniature braided Mississippis.  Swans stretch necks to lie flat for sips of fresh water.  In places, ancient ditches dug to drain salt flats still channel inflow and out.  My memories recall playing with our children as we built dams and sent flotsam “boats” on a perilous journey out to sea. 

People go to ocean beaches to scan empty vistas, to watch huge breakers, to swim in surf.  This bay is far more casual, with low wavelets (except in storms) and often more rocks than soft sand.  Mosquitoes can be frequent, an occasional greenhead fly painful.  There are recreational boats of all types _sail, yacht, jet ski interspersed with active commercial clam rakes.  Lately paddle boards have become a vehicle of choice.  I find more to see on a bay than on the vast, intimidating, ocean.

Water scenes calm the soul.  Imagining the infinite and eternal comes naturally.  As it was, so shall it ever be, and I am just a (pick your choice) pebble, wave, bird, or passer-by.  Anthropomorphism reigns _ mighty waves, ceaseless surf, relentless tide and all other elements seem to have purpose and will.  I am humbled by the vast cacophony of sound and sight and smell, and feel.  Carefree as the sun visibly crawls its arc.  

Tidal lands never ignore the moon.  They are never exactly in synch _ tides are insanely complex to predict _ but they are partners.  Seasonal moon variations affect height in spring and fall, phases are always an indicator of when there may be floods.  Sea life, of course, is fully attuned to these rhythms which determine many mating cycles.

Spring on Huntington tidal flats is a wonderful time.  Life is springing up anew, although often in subtle ways.  Migrant birds return as overwintered residents frisk about.  People often remain indoors because of chill winds, so a sense of solitude can still emanate from empty expanses.  Not least, the bustle and worries of a difficult social world can be _ for a little while _ left behind and ignored.