It’s that time of year again. Sloppy rows of birch, maple and sycamore, hugging the writhing creeks, weary after a long winter’s worth of holding their breath, exhale a soft halo of glowing lime. The understory stretches, a dense, impassable wonderland of redbud and dogwood and wild blackberry flinging its splendor out for all to see, before the canopy steals its light.
I know, writing about spring should be illegal. When we start waxing poetic we employ ten dozen clichés and deeply selective vision. You know, the kind of vision that ignores the old tire half-buried in silt at the edge of the stream, the sad remnants of somebody’s fake poinsettia, the non-biodegradable plastic swimming pool hung up on a branch—all the remnants of a wet winter.
Still, this is my blog, and spring never fails to evoke in me a wonder that cries out to be expressed, especially after an endless winter like the one just past. I’m not going to annoy any editors with my musings—I’m just going to share them with you. And maybe someday I can steal the images for use in a story. (I’ll be like Tchaikovsky: repeat offender in self-plagiarism.)
It’s a perfect day, and as I sit in the warm sun, I try to identify how many different bird calls I can hear. They sing in such perfect ensemble that no matter how many times I count, I always lose track after three. I glory in the air rushing past my face as I pedal along the trail. Wake up, world! And wake up, soul. The mind-numbing days of staring at the same four walls are over. The dandelion war begins anew. And…
Wait a minute, what’s that hiss? That noise like escaping air? Surely that’s not a sharp trail rock, wedged in my bicycle tire, a mile and a half (all uphill) from home?