Back to normal April at last: cool and damp and shining, the woods’ edge a haze of tiny leaves and catkins. The ancient bridal wreath bush is white again.
bridal wreath
4/27/2021
Overshadowed by the sprawling French lilac like an opening act, the old bridal wreath bush keeps sending out white sprays.
5/1/2020
Out too late to hear the wood thrush, I’m stuck with a catbird’s Muzak version. The bridal wreath’s skinny bloom-fingers shake in the wind.
5/21/2016
Few bird calls are audible above the hush of rain falling on new leaves. White lilac and bridal wreath flower heads droop, turning brown.
1/25/2013
Crows begin scolding a red-tailed hawk on the far side of the field, and a squirrel digging in the yard hurtles into the bridal wreath bush.
4/23/2012
Snow falling faster than it can melt. Unto every one that hath shall be given, says the sky: hawthorn and bridal wreath now twice as white.
4/16/2012
Dawn, and the peepers are still calling. The bridal-wreath bush glows brighter than the thin grin of a moon rising through the trees.
11/26/2011
Another warm morning. A Carolina wren pops out of the bridal wreath bush like a rabbit from a magician’s hat and ascends the lilac, singing.
1/22/2011
Intense cold, and a stillness so deep the trains can barely be heard. A cardinal flickers like a pilot light under the bridal wreath bush.
4/17/2010
A brief blaze of sun through a hole in the clouds. The bridal wreath bush is in full bloom, measuring the wind with stiff white fingers.
4/29/2009
Does the cottontail rabbit remember winter when the bridal wreath bush it uses for cover again turns white?
2/12/2008
It’s snowing: fine, dry flakes. A squirrel falls out of a tree. Two chickadees drop into the bridal wreath bush to settle a score.