This morning the cattle romped through the pasture across from our driveway, kicking their feet in the air. They seemed irresistably drawn to a small manure pile, to meet the hard heads of their opponents in the game of push and shove. The action drew me outdoors, where the air today is warm and spring-scented.

I walked around the house, looking at the flower beds I made last year. Along the east side, a row of delphiniums is up, their frothy leaves the colour of new lettuce. The virginia creeper vines have begun to redden and bud, and the scarlet daylily’s spikes are showing signs of life. I raked off some dead stems and, as each year I do, dug in with my bare hands and got stabbed by dead thistly stems because I didn’t plan to do this now and left my garden gloves in the house.

Everett can burp really loud and long. On our walk I told him it is starting to be annoying, it sounds rude, and that I want him to do it with his mouth closed if he must do it at all.

It’s suppertime, and he’s slicing bread to put a roasted wiener into. Zander is watching, and Everett favours him with a long burp, mouth closed.

“How do you do that?” Zander says, awed.

“I don’t know,” replies Everett. “It’s a gift, I guess.”