Learning to sing between rain drops

Today we saw the first sunning snake of the year as we headed to the post office. It looked like a large bull snake but the glimpse we caught as we drove past wasn’t enough to be certain. The good news is there was no squished snake on the road as we returned home. I’ve grown old and creaky enough that I now appreciate the concept of just stretching out and lying in the sun much more than I did in my younger days.

snake sunning at edge of gravel road

Photo by J. Harrington

At the moment, there’s male rose-breasted grosbeak at the grape jelly feeder we put out for orioles that have yet to show themselves; downey woodpeckers are at the nectar feeder; red-winged blackbirds at the sunflower chip feeder; and bluejays drinking from the water-filled ant trap hanging above the nectar feeder. We continue to await a first of season visit from a hummer or anyone more exotic, such as a scarlet tanager.

Although we’re not really a sports fan, our son is, and the fact that the Twins baseball team were on an extended winning streak and climbed to second place in the Central division while the Timberwolves basketball team just defeated Denver in the first game of their playoff series, has him beside himself with glee. I’ve lived in this state long enough to be reasonably sure that heartbreak will come soon enough (but I won’t say that to him).

Yesterday’s fussing about the condition of the aspen grove turns out to look like it was premature. (What do you mean that’s true of many of my rants?) The Better Half and I took a closer look around dinner time. The leaves look like they’re there and developing slowly, in part due to heavy shading by the nearby conifers.

If we get enough dry days between rainy ones, I may get last year’s leaves cleaned up just before autumn’s leaf fall occurs this year. It’s not quite enough to put me at Macbeth’s level of despair, but the phrase “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...” keeps resonating as I look at the yard. I do seem to be slowly learning that all the fussing in the world has yet to mulch a single leaf nor burn a single branch.

Spring, the sweet spring

By Thomas Nashe

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king, 

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing: 

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The palm and may make country houses gay, 

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay: 

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, 

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, 

In every street these tunes our ears do greet: 

      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!

            Spring, the sweet spring!

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