Friday Ramble, On Our Way (Sort Of)

It rained overnight, and beyond our windows this morning are clouds, drifting fog and a forlorn copse of skeletal maples and ashes doing their best to put out leaves, catkins and flowers. Alas, springtime is late this year, and the tree people have a long way to go before they leaf out, but they are working on it.

In the street, a west wind cavorts in gutters, ruffles dead leaves and other detritus like playing cards. It eases around the corner of the little blue house in the village and sets the copper wind bells on the deck in exuberant motion. So ardent is the wind's caress that sometimes the bells are almost parallel to the ground.

The air is warmer than the ground below, and the meeting of the two elements stirs up something fey and magical. Somewhere in the early murk, robins are singing their pleasure, and chickadees are singing courtship songs. A woodpecker (probably a pileated from the volume of its hammering) is driving its formidable beak into an old birch in the hedgerow. Now and again, he (or possibly she) pauses, takes a few deep breaths and gives an unfettered laugh that carries for quite a distance. Even a bird in the fog, it seems, knows the value of taking a break from its work now and again, breathing in and out for a minute or two and giving voice to a few cackles of raucous amusement.

I can't see either the caroling robins or my whomping woodpecker, but that is all right. Their voices are welcome musical elements in a morning that is all about the nebulous, the wondrous, the mysterious and unseen, maybe even a little spooky.

In the kitchen, coffee is in progress and and a little Mozart (The Magic Flute) fills the air, but something more is needed. Miracle of miracles, a small clump of crocus is blooming in the protected southern corner of a neighbor's garden. The little dears are lit from within, and I swear, they could light up the whole village.

Happy April, everyone!