March had come in like a lion. And in the morning, I walked through town along the road to the songs of sparrows and crows, southeast into woods of Osage and scrub black walnuts and box elders. All their branches were coated with ice, were shining in the sun, the world bright, steaming from the melting water. I moved out of the open road and the noise of the city, into a protective hive of reflected light and a kind of bee-like murmuring that grew stronger as I entered the woods and took away