This morning at Sachuest the force, a wild cousin to the one of which Dylan Thomas wrote, that in this case "through the brown scraggy stick or gnarly stunted trunk drives" was manifest in a profusion of new growth ... from honey-suckle, milkweed pre-pod, the first blooms of beach roses in both scarlet and white, the promise of raspberries, Queen Anne’s lace, tall buttercup, and crab apple flowers, to the oily slick hedges of poison ivy along each side of the western trail. There were blackbird here for the first time this spring though I’ve seen them elsewhere for weeks, as well as a pair of house finch, doves, a large brown bird I thought might be a thrush, gypsy moths tented in a tree or two, and a lone deer in the hidden meadow off the trail toward 3rd beach ... fishermen perched noisy and expectant on boulders every 50 yards along the beaches ... one jogger, and two other walkers including one who seemed perfectly outfitted by Queer Eye directly from L.L. Bean for the backwoods of someplace much more remote than here. After last week’s rain and numerous visitors kicking, scuffing and dragging along, the stone dust path has even begun to show a character that’s much easier to live with. My walk has made me hungry for french toast with maple syrup and peaches.