Feels like spring

This feels like spring: the birds sing to one another; the air is warm; new buds and daffodils. Wasps fly around the house, fresh grass greens the ground; and where we sledded just a month or so ago, now a plastic playground has formed, seemingly growing from the ground: a see-saw, a slide, a sandbox, and a rocking fish. Yes, a rocking fish. I notice the rose bush I pruned just a couple of weeks ago with fresh red buds blossoming and I feel the wind caress my woolly cheek. E tells me now is the time to rid myself of my beard, that the extra coating is no longer required, and I am likely to heed her advice. She is the one who has to look at me, to feel me; not I. My appearance is of little concern to me: I would prefer not to scare people with it, make them uncomfortable; and then, I don’t mind if I do. It is not my business how they respond, and still I do my best to be kind.

Soon, the evergreens will blend again with the summer leaves; soon the shadow trees will hide their bare limbs. Soon, open vistas will be covered by a canopy of green. It’s all too beautiful either way.

All these birds returning to their summer homes, celebrating in song a successful journey; preparing for new life, opportunity. It is nice to hear them call, to tell me of their gladness.

Wooden doors hinge on the breeze like wings and I can but gaze in awe. Tree limbs wave, a virtual sea, while a bit of tin somewhere bends percussively. And the wind itself is music, the inspiration for every wind instrument we have made, as it rushes through the forest, swirls overhead and blows its harmonies.

This is springtime; this is the awakening.