Around the corner, three song sparrows were trilling their hearts out from a rooftop. Their pleasure in the day and the season was echoed by a construction worker a few doors away belting out Doug Seeger's “Going Down to the River” as he installed drywall in the old house on the corner. The door of the place was wide open, and his rendering of the gospel classic was off key, but it was soulful and fine stuff indeed.
Listening to the sparrows and the guy doing the drywall, I found myself thinking of the mythic Irish hero, Fionn mac Cumhaill (Finn McCool). He thought the finest music in the world was not the belling of stags, the baying of hounds, birds singing in the overstory or the sound of happy laughter, but "the music of what happens".
This morning, the crows left an offering in the birdbath, a tiny, dead field mouse with its entrails spilled out and floating forlornly around in limp spaghetti-ish circles, not really the way one likes to start the day. Downcast, I went back to the deck and held my nose resolutely over the mug of Italian dark roast waiting for me there. Later I donned rubber gloves, gave the wee mouse back to the earth, scrubbed out the birdbath and refilled it with clean water. The crows will probably return with new booty tomorrow, and we will commence clean up operations all over again.
Tulips in every shade of the rainbow are starting to bloom, but it is the reds that dazzle - the blooms are almost incandescent in the early sunlight, so bright they hurt one's eyes. Daffodils and scarlet fringed narcissus nod here and there, and violets sprinkle the garden. Magnolia trees in the village are flowering and their perfume lingers everywhere. Wonder of wonders, the first few bumble girls of the season have appeared, just in time to partake of the crabapples that are starting to flower. When Lady Spring finally shows up here, she hits the ground running.
What an amazing trip this season is, what wonders there are to feast one's eyes on; trees leafing out, wildflowers popping up everywhere, feeders in the garden full of songbirds. If I were to stop and take photos of every splendid thing we (Beau and I) see on our morning walks (and everything is splendid at this time of the year), we might not get home again for weeks.
Rain is in the cards for today, and that is quite all right. We need wet stuff, and by that I do NOT mean snow or hail. Collection barrels have already been dragged out of the garden shed and installed under downspouts. Bird feeders have been scrubbed, filled and rehung. My new hummingbird feeder will arrive by the end of the day, and nectar has been brewed for it.
When I opened the sundeck doors before dawn this morning to let Beau out, the fragrance of dark, rain wet earth wafted in, and I felt like dancing.
1 comment:
29C is forecast for us on Sunday and although that's far too warm for this time of season, after this cold wind we've had for the past week I'm almost looking forward to it.
The only greenery around here so far in my perennial beds is blue flax and garlic chives. Scott's garlic is up in the veggie garden.
We need rain and warmth to kickstart things.
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