SOMETIMES WRITERS GET UPSTAGED, EVEN AT HOME. OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FATHER OF WATERS, about 100 yards off our shore, the trunk of a great tree has lodged itself in the sand during the spring flood. On that tree, in the midst of our blizzard, now sit about 18 double crested cormorants, snoring and croaking. I remarked to Kathy, in a poetic moment, that they looked like a row of undertakers, hands clasped behind their backs, gazing down into the river. Remarked she, without missing a beat—“Yeah, they’re holding a funeral for spring.” I ask you, is that not perfection?