Every morning the green is a little more intense as May turns slowly into Will. Just audible over the rain, some distant motor’s steady hum.
Warm rain. The wood thrushes have returned to sing at the edge of the woods for another year. It’s almost possible to believe in redemption.
Does the cottontail rabbit remember winter when the bridal wreath bush it uses for cover again turns white?
Kitchen: wolf spider. Bathroom: silverfish. Dining room: millipede. And right above me on the porch, a gnatcatcher lands and sings.
The bottom half of the porcupine-girdled cherry tree is in bloom; the top is lifeless. You’d think the news would travel from the ground up.
Crows mobbing an owl, the sun breaking through clouds, a field sparrow’s cup filling to the brim… April is still an unknown country to me.
Hard rain with a bit of wind. But dreariness is impossible with so many variations on yellow: spicebush, forsythia, daffodils, pussy willow.