April springs forth on the fourth

We get our first Spring Greens CSA share in about a month (May 1). We'll be splitting the contents with the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law, else there'd be way to much food wasted. The weekly drive to the pick-up location takes me through some of the prettier areas in our extended neighborhood, so it will be a weekly "chore" that I enjoy and a valid excuse to not #Stay-At-Home.

Meanwhile, back here in early April, this morning's temperature was 20℉. By early afternoon the temperature had barely climbed to 32℉. As shade disappears, the sun's direct warmth is enough to melt last night's snow cover. By mid-week we're anticipating nearing 70℉. I'm not sure how our native plants handle these temperature swings through the thaw-freeze-thaw cycles but the emergence of renewed life continues, albeit slowly. Although the maple buds have swollen noticeably and local streams and rivers are now running bankfull +, but not as full as last year, there's still no indication the oak buds have noticed the longer days and increased temperatures. Meanwhile, waves of robins and starlings are moving North.

last Spring: bankfull and then some

Photo by J. Harrington

No, we haven't yet made our inspection trip to see if the skunk cabbage has emerged. (Refer above to warmer days next week.) The combination of incompetence (at best) in the nation's capital, cloudy, damp, depressing weather, and the coronavirus news has enhanced the gloom and doom around here to the point that Eeyore looks like an  optimist. We've spent too much time avoiding brisk, cold winds, spitting rains and reading  social media. If, after enjoying some newfound warmth, we don't slip backwards too much, perhaps we'll be better able to appreciate new and improved conditions. We did enjoy this morning's cloud wrapped, waxing gibbous moon. Look for a pink, super moon in a few days, on April 7.

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

For more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

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