Bud burst, leaf out, burst of color #phenology

Leaf buds are bursting. The tiniest of leaves are appearing, softening the bare branch outlines of trees. Maple flowers have opened. Day lilies grow taller daily.  I have once again passed through a North Country Winter without carefully reading either a botany or a phenology primer. I'm embarrassed. On the other hand, I read quite a bit of poetry and a lot about agriculture and food systems (but I still haven't mastered making compost at home). For reasons far beyond my ability to guess at, let alone comprehend, the local tamaracks have been slow to green up this year and  the oaks seem later than usual to start leaf out. The showers and warmer temperatures expect during the next several days may well jump start more activity on  the greening up front.

backyard deer droppings

Photo by J. Harrington

We had a grackle at the feeder yesterday. I don't remember seeing that before. Nor do I remember seeing as many deer droppings all over the yard as there are this Spring. If I had to bet, I'd guess they were foraging on the acorn mast that dropped in great quantities last Autumn. There's lots left that still needs to get raked up. Mother Nature is often profligate in her ways. A quick scan of the chrome yellow male goldfinches now in their breeding plumage reveals she's extravagant in many ways.

male goldfinches in Summer colors

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometimes I think the year after year variability in Spring's arrival is to teach us not only to pay attention but to give us practice in growing our patience as well as our gardens.

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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