The beech leaf swaying back and forth in a grove out in the Lanark highlands was a small thing, but it was delicate and poignant in a wabi sabi kind of way, a silent but wonderfully eloquent reminder of last year and its fleeting, vanished seasons.
Cedars and bare birches in the background swayed back and forth in the wind, and so did the bird feeding stations suspended in an old pine tree a few feet away. Throngs of chickadees flew in and out of the feeders which we had just just topped up with sunflower seed, and their pleasure in the sunlight, the day and the nosh we had brought them was something to see (and hear). My husband was strong enough this week to walk along the trail into the deep woods, and we three smiled as we wandered along.
When we returned home later and looked at the day's photos, we realized that at long last, the old beeches by the trail are turning their thoughts toward springtime and budding out. Looking at the tiny nubbins of sylvan promise making their way into the great wide world, we grinned at each other, our contentment bookending the day's activities perfectly. Such times are precious stuff indeed.