“Many creative writers keep journals; the sociologist’s need for systematic reflection demands it.” -C. Wright Mills

I crushed the voice of spring.

On my usual route to the western terminus of Long Island Sound, I was bombing down the bike path and chanced upon a robin. This was a familiar encounter. I rush down upon birds in the path, and robins in particular wait until I’m nearly upon them before dahing perpindicularly across my path, making it extremely difficult for me to turn abruptly in pursuit (not that I’ve tried, mind you!).

Today, the robin didn’t move.

As I came abreast of it, the robin exclaimed in fright. The bad premonition of this induced me to look back. I saw a most discomfiting flailing and flopping. I didn’t know what to do and so continued on to ask the Sound, passing the track suit-bedecked morning walk regular. From the rock perch that is my morning destination, I asked the Sound for the meaning of such a horrible experience days before my daughter is born. The Sound had no answer, but it was populated by a number of robins hopping about the shore’s seaweed.

On the way back, I stopped to check in on the robin. The grey film over its eye assured me it was now flying about in new clouds and breezes. I felt obliged to move it under a nearby tree and some dandelions that I imagined were daisies. In the process, I saw that its left eye was still black. This emblem of new life and warmer climes had been blind in one eye. I wished, “May all your flights be soaring and your earthworms fat,” and left.

And the ride ended with an odd moment of punctuation. Arriving home, an older woman from across the hall, who I rarely see, was exercising with a visiting nurse. My immediate impression from her creaking walker and weak stare was that she had suffered a stroke.