Spring arriving is so like a neighborhood after a
rough summer’s storm, everyone coming outside to check on homes, each other.
Here, it
is 48 degrees. The first day of no coat, of seeing grass and soil. Of a
chipmunk awake, rather nicely round, perched on a Mountain Laurel, basking in
the sun as they clean their fur. Of the adolescent Broadwing hawk, who managed
their first hard winter, and flew off from a nearby tree when I came outside to
just stand, face in the warm sun.
Last night, the land was cold and the air warm, so all about us, in the darkness, swirled a mist that remains today, roiling down the ice and snow covered river.
Today the shepherd sits outside in the bright march sunlight, eating snow, watching and listening, contentedly at home.
And outside, we encounter one sign of encroaching spring, after another.
Of buds
and some visible perennials and birds really going quite nutso, with their
wooing and mating. Of tenants leaving
and arriving. Birch catkins shining in the morning sun. Almost time to pack up
scarves and boots and hats and gloves , though we should not be too hasty. Once
when my daughter was young, she had her May birthday. It snowed. She cried.
Nothing would console her. Ah, New England.
Full daylight, with the half moon sky. A reprieve, the spring is, in the lands of
seasons.
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