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Category: seasons

They’re Back!

They’re Back!

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The hummingbirds are back! Once again, for at least the fourth time, exactly on April 28. Where have they been?  And how do they make their way from other climes and latitudes right back to this suburban backyard?  I don’t understand them — and perhaps that is part of their charm.

Seeing them again — at first just a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye — completes the season in a way no blooming tree or flower can. 

Because these tiny creatures aren’t rooted here; they return voluntarily. And they bring with them the jewel tones of the tropics, a whiff of the faraway.

(The photo is my own, but not from this year. And because it’s a female, not as jewel-toned.)

Redbuds!

Redbuds!

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Every year I obsess over a new type of spring bloom. This year, it’s the redbud tree. I’ve admired them forever, of course. On the long drives to Kentucky I would see wild ones blooming in the mountains, sometimes whole swatches of them coloring the hillsides.

Unlike the delicate cherries of early spring, the redbud is vibrant, bold — an azalea-hued plant that doesn’t wait till late April to show its bright color. 

I’ve photographed several of them lately and covet one for the yard. I have just the spot for it. 

Impressionistic View

Impressionistic View

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Most days I have little choice about which walk I take. I have 30 or so spare minutes, and I sandwich in a stroll between meetings and deadlines, taking the most expedient route — the one out my front door, down the main drag in the neighborhood and back.

But yesterday, I had a little more time, so I picked a paved path that runs along the Fairfax County Parkway because it afforded the best view of blooming Bradford Pear and Redbud trees. I’d been seeing white petals blowing in the breeze like so many springtime snowflakes, and I figured if I was going to see the pears, I’d better do it soon.

The parkway path provided a broad-stroke, Impressionistic view of spring, the kind seen from a distance. It made me feel as if I had traveled far, when actually I was only a few miles from home.

Easter Saturday

Easter Saturday

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I write today as the eggs are boiling, before the bulk of the cleaning starts and the cake goes in the oven. There will be 16 people here tomorrow. That’s a big gathering when the number is usually two. 

And it’s a big moment in this slow return to normalcy. It’s not exactly like the opening of the gates in Oran from Camus’ The Plague. Our experience with disease has been longer but less acute than what those poor fictional souls experienced. 

But it’s been enough, thank you very much. And our hope that this might be the beginning of the end will make tomorrow’s alleluias ring out all the louder. 

The Heat

The Heat

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For the first time in a long time, I’m warm. The windows are open, the sweater and long-sleeved shirt are peeled off and I’m sitting comfortably in short sleeves. 

The heat has roared in on a wild west wind, sending temperatures into the 70s before 10 a.m. It reminds me of a mythical beast, this heat, like something I’d heard about but wasn’t sure was real. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I’m remembering how it limbers up the muscles and frees up the mind. How it opens doors, both literally and metaphorically. 

I’d like to think the heat is here to stay, but I know better. It’s a fickle time of year. We could have cold rain tomorrow. But at least the heat is here now. And I’m basking in it. 

Curtain Briefly Drawn

Curtain Briefly Drawn

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It was a gully washer, a cloudburst, the kind of rain that lifts worms from their snug in-ground quarters and deposits them onto the driveway. I even spotted a banana slug this morning, clinging to the siding on the front of the house.

Yesterday’s downpour was torrential at times — rain with a mission. It filled the creeks and muddied the soil. It made the forsythia pop and the skunk cabbage unfurl.

Birds loved it; the feeder was mobbed with goldfinches, sparrows, cardinals and woodpeckers. 

It felt healing, this rain, a curtain briefly drawn between winter and spring — brown boughs and cracked dirt on one side, greenness and growth on the other. 

Celebrating Crocus

Celebrating Crocus

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This morning, a celebration of crocus, of the all the new ones that have sprung up in the yard this year, apparently dormant for several years but making their appearance now thanks to time and warmed earth.

There are clumps of crocus by the street, around the tree and amidst the laurel in the front garden. They are pale lavender, rich purple and creamy white.

Though I think of crocus as shy flowers, in company they project a bright and jaunty beauty, a kind of brazen, “let’s do it” approach that makes me admire them for their bravery.

Spring Awakening

Spring Awakening

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Spring woke me up this morning. It tugged at my elbow and jostled me to consciousness earlier than I was planning. I didn’t know it was spring at the time. Only after I learned of the 5:37 a.m. vernal equinox did my early awakening make sense.

But it had to be spring, had to be something hopeful and fresh that was already about its business before sun-up. Because it didn’t rouse me with light pouring in the window. It’s still dark in these parts. And it didn’t entice me with the aroma of lilac — that shrub is far from blooming here. 

It simply filled me with the sense of wanting to be up and about — even before daybreak. Why? Because it’s spring, 2021, and it will soon be bright and warm and full of promise.

The Details

The Details

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Sometimes all it takes is a short stroll to open the mind and senses to the day ahead. Today I took the long way around to the newspaper — out the back door, down the deck stairs, around the garden and through the gate and side yard to the driveway where it lay, double-bagged in orange.

The ground is hard and cracked, given two weeks without moisture, which made it easy for me to amble out there in my (sturdily-soled) slippers. Weather folks say we need the rain, but I say we need the dryness. The yard is finally not a lake anymore.

On my short expedition, I found several sticks that I broke over my knee and stuck in the bin for tomorrow’s yard waste pickup. I noted the fine pruning of the hollies, which no longer graze the garage. I heard the tiny peeps of birds fluttering awake in the azaleas. And I spotted swollen buds on the forsythia.

It’s a new day, these details said. Embrace it!

Steady and Clear

Steady and Clear

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When I woke at 5:40, morning had begun. It was seeping in around the window shades and filling the room not with light but with something that wasn’t darkness, either.  A vague shift of shadow, a sharper awareness of shapes.

I lay there a while, thinking it was still dark enough to sleep and that would also be a good way to start a Tuesday, also, perhaps better than jumping out of bed. But the morning won out. There was an insistence to it: Come on, get up. What are you waiting for?

Once downstairs, the morning fulfilled its promise, putting out a steady clear light from the east, which I stationed myself to watch by sitting in the big blue chair. It’s been a light fest ever since, a treat we can continue to enjoy as days lengthen and expand. 

A long winter, an even longer year. The light is welcome.