Listening to the ice, staring at the spring

Listening to bowhead whales is its own sort of music, strangely rich and simultaneously made hollow by the electricity that captured it.  The low moans of the bowheads are accented by the out-of-this-world sound effects of ice seals.  If you've never heard it I can hardly describe it, other than to say that seals are other-worldly.

It does not endear me to them.

Belugas whistle monotonic in my ear, and look like an answer to a year long problem, but sound more like the problem itself.

Listening to bowheads is its own sort of music, made manifest by an underscore of the Alaskan Folk Festival which I play in the background... two ends of the same world whispering in my ears.  But it is not raining in Oregon, there is no ice in my home.  There is a sleepy puppy staring  longingly at the warm belly of an older pup, who may or may not snuggle with her.  There is a maple tree with young leave, budding peas, sunflowers just starting life.

I feel new, or ready to be new,  I look ahead of me and wonder if I'm starting the same life again, or do I play a new character this time?