Rumor has it that the cows that graze across from King's College are ready to come back, any day now. Someone finally got worried enough to ask a porter, and the porter confessed himself to be worried, too. "It gets lonely out here without the cows," he said. He is the porter who mans the back gatehouse, making sure that no tourists get into King's for free, and that no one bothers the students while they take their exams, which most of them have done by now. Meaning that May Week, held (bien sur) in June, is about to happen. Meaning that hilarity and mayhem and general overconsumption are about to take place.
And I? I find myself thinking about my Ohio prairie more and more--not wishing that I could be there sooner, just feeling out the contours of how happy I will be to walk there again. Maybe the cows will be back on their hillside near the apartment in the woods when I get home.
In the meantime, I keep tracking the colors coming into view here: the wine-dark leaves of the beech by the river, the heady purples in Clare's Fellows' Garden, the red-orange of the saucer-sized poppies there. The burgundy snapdragons velvety even to the eye. The fuzz grey of the moorchicks as they grow up so fast.