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Category: seasons

A Bevvy of Bikers

A Bevvy of Bikers

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I heard them before I saw them. A low-pitched whirring not unlike what we experienced during the summer of the cicada invasion.

But these weren’t insects; they were bikers!

Every Tuesday evening from April through October, scores of cyclists (who should probably not be called bikers but I couldn’t resist the alliteration) skim along Reston’s suburban thoroughfares. They zoom by so impossibly fast that all I sometimes catch of them is a blur of movement.

If I’m close enough (as I was night before last), I might pick up a bit of conversation or laughter, a few words out of context. But other than that, the cyclists scarcely seem human. It’s as if person and bike have melded into one creature, a centaur of sorts. An impression that running in packs only reinforces.

After one or two packs swish by there is usually a straggler or two, huffing and puffing and bringing up the rear. They are the lucky ones. In it but not in it. Far enough away to know what they are part of.

The Promise of Spring

The Promise of Spring

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The clouds moved in yesterday as Copper and I took a leisurely stroll through the woods. Clouds at sunset confuse the rambler, take away the visual cues of angled light. So we wandered farther than I intended, deep into the forest where the skunk cabbage borders tadpole pools.

I peered at the tiny creatures darting in the shallow water, thought about the frogs they will become if nature gives them a chance.

At this point in the season, all is potential. Nowhere is this clearer than in the woods. Here there are clusters of violets and carpets of spring beauties, but there isn’t the color and greenery you see in suburban yards. There are no flowering cherries here, no tulips or phlox. I did spot a couple of Virginia bluebells but those were in the community meadow.

For parts of our walk, we could have been ambling through late winter. But we weren’t. There was a freshness in the air, a humidity and promise. It was spring all right.

A Lilac, Finally

A Lilac, Finally

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The lilacs in Groton, Massachusetts, hung their heavy heads over Martins Pond Road, and when I would go for runs in those days I would look forward to their company. You didn’t have to sniff each individual flower. The scent was everywhere, part of the general spring exhalation.

I’m not a lilac expert, but I can tell these plants aren’t suited for D.C.’s warm, humid climate. Still, I have a transplanted one my brother gave me a dozen years ago, tucked away in what would seem to be a perfect corner of the yard. Every year I scan it for blossoms; every year I’m disappointed.

Yesterday I tiptoed up to the lilac and searched for flowers. There were the familiar glossy leaves, the sprig of forsythia which somehow started growing at its base. I was almost ready to walk away when I saw at the very tip-top the palest hint of lavender. It was a slender, anemic-looking blossom, but a blossom just the same.

It has a way to go before it looks like this lilac, which I snapped last weekend in Lexington. But it’s a start.

Perfumed

Perfumed

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The soil is rich here in central Kentucky, dark loam that sends forth an incredible profusion of spring blooms.

But what has struck me this visit is not the soil but the air. It is, quite simply, perfumed. I walk the familiar streets inhaling at every turn.

There are great, heavily laden lilac bushes, their flowers just waiting to be sniffed. And then there is another smell in the air. Is it apple blossoms? Spirea?

Whatever it is, it conjures up for me a childhood spent outdoors, and in the spring of the year, those first warm days,  the heady plunge back into that natural life.

So it is not just the current spring I am taking in, but all the springs before.

Compressed

Compressed

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Our late start spring means daffodils and cherries and pears all together.  It means the new spring green of the tree buds popping quickly, banishing winter grays and browns in 24 or 48 hours.

Wood poppies join the sweet woodruff. Forget-me-nots crowd the periwinkle.

It’s compressed, intense, riotous. It’s spring, finally.

Poised

Poised

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On a walk yesterday I saw the forsythia, its stems plump with blooms held in check. I saw the red furze of the maples budding. The few daffodils were hanging their heads in the chill breeze that blew in. They were waiting too, waiting for the warmth to return.

Downtown, I hear, blossoms are already unfolding. But here, where I live, on this Easter Saturday, it is still a day of waiting.

The whole of this winter-gouged, potholed world is poised for spring.

Warm Morning

Warm Morning

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Sixty-two when I woke up, the first warm morning in a while. Taste of rain in the air. A breeze that stirs the ornamental grass and clatters the wind chimes.

There is warmth that builds steadily through the hours, from a chill sunrise to a parched afternoon. And then there is warmth given from the start, a gift to utilize or to squander.

Today we have the latter — and it brings a coziness to the house. We’re here already, no need to strive, to be hopeful about the angle of the sun or the tilt of the wind.

It’s the difference between a day that grows into itself and one that starts off fully formed, has everything to lose.

This, of course, assumes warmth to be desirable, which is not always the case. But on this April 3, after this February and this March, it most certainly is.

Red Buds

Red Buds

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It’s not just the red bud that blooms in red this time of year. Many trees are erupting in a frizz of scarlet. Red oak, maples, burning bush and others.

I snapped these tree buds out a window as they posed in front of a nice, neutral wall. But they’re just the beginning.

I look up, see a blur of pale color where stark branches used to be.

Spring begins slightly out of focus, as if our eyes can’t take too much at once.

Rethinking March

Rethinking March

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I’ve never been a big fan of March. True, there is basketball to watch, and the first daffodils to savor. January and February are behind us, always a good thing. But March has never been one of my favorite months.

As time continues to speed up on me, however, as March comes sooner and sooner every year, I realize I can no longer afford to dislike it. (Of course, you could make the opposite argument — that the faster time goes, the quicker we will be done with March — but I’m trying to be positive in this post!)

All this is to say that March and I are considering a truce. Take yesterday’s walk, for instance. It was with Copper, which meant melancholy was impossible. Still, I was expending some mental effort trying to figure out what it is about the month that bothers me.

But as I pondered, my eyes kept straying to the gray/white sky, to the birds wheeling about trees still winter bare. A desultory woodpecker drilled loudly from the woods. A crow touched down with wind-swerved wing. The first brave yellows and purples stuck their heads above ground. And suddenly I was struck with the feel of the air and of the moment. There is much to behold in this raw month, much to appreciate in its wild, windswept beauty.

Tender Earth

Tender Earth

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I walk carefully through the meadow, choosing grass clumps and leaf piles and anything else that will keep the mud off my shoes. The snow and rain have saturated our soil; to walk on it now is to sink a little with each step.

Aren’t we all a little tender this time of year? Coats cast aside, jackets unzipped, the feel of the sun on newly bared skin.  There’s a freedom but also a sensitivity.

So it is with the earth. Clover and fescue just starting to take hold. Even the lightest of foot falls leaves an imprint.  I tiptoe to the trampoline to give the grass a chance. I watch with dismay as Copper scrambles after the ball, his every feint and skid leaving deep tracks in the mud. The yard is marked with our play.

But this tender time will pass, I tell myself. Even now new plants are anchoring themselves in the ground, their roots spreading. Soon they will weave a net, a home, a bulwark. Soon the land will be less impressionable. Until then, I’ll tread lightly.