Last night was our night for the Théâtre du nouveau monde's production of La Charge de l'orignal épormyable, a play by Quebec poet Claude Gauvreau which caused a sensation when it was first mounted in the 1970s. The stage set featured a forest of leafless trees and the emotional level was near hysterics. Not my kind of theatre, but I found people-watching the audience interesting anyway.
Particularly notable were two young women in skirts, pale stockings and high-heeled shoes. Not boots with dark tights, but pretty shoes and nylons that provided no protection from the cold, and skirts cut on the diagonal that flipped around their knees as they walked. A sure sign of spring in these parts even if what happened on stage was as fraught with evil as economic news over the last few months.
There were more good portents yesterday, too:
Several flights of geese in the early morning
One robin sitting on a bare tree branch
The call of a white throated sparrow somewhere on the hillside.
People sitting at tables outside cafés with books or newspapers in front of them, relaxed, turning their faces to the sun.
The snowdrops in our front yard, of course.
I know that a swallow does not a summer make, but in this season of our discontent we must look for solace everywhere.
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