In the time of the Covid-19 pandemic.
Robins sing in predawn chorus. Goldfinches have returned. Drenched by
midday rain, a Mourning Dove coos. I'm reminded that last summer, a pair of doves
brought their babies for safe haven to our garden.
The garden should be even more
welcoming this year. Perhaps having learned the lesson, those babies will bring their babies here for safe haven
as well.
Meanwhile, the primrose declares - My
time is now.
The raucous voice of Sandhill Cranes riding north cuts chill grey air
like a scythe. Two mornings in a row, a pair of male cardinals kept close
company with a female while she picked the place over and mostly ignored them.
Some folk take spring as a sign of hope. I respectfully disagree.
Hope is just dreaming. For instance, all winter long I hoped
the sublime Prairie Smoke I planted last summer took root over winter. But
just this morning, I learned for a fact it did.
Spring is perennial promise made manifest. That's way
better than hope.
Tomorrow when temperatures plummet on a cold front roaring down from
the north, provided the sun shines bright through crisp clean air, the
crocuses will nonetheless burst blue.
The little buggers below (hyacinth, I think) fully understand they must yet
wait their turn. Also, that it will come. So they bide time.
The real world knows exactly what time it is. Now, perhaps we know too.
Because this particular spring the Earth reminds us of our
proper place upon it. Beyond the immediate worry and fear, we must understand
that maybe next time, real life will shrug us off altogether and good
riddance, too.
People like to say Life goes on and they're right, far as that goes. Doesn't mean it'll include us, though.
In the northern hemisphere the vernal equinox occurs just this side of
midnight tonight. First time in 124 years that's happened today, not tomorrow. They say a spring storm will usher it in.
Meanwhile, the lupine seeds purloined two years ago from along the Presque
Isle near where the river feeds the big lake bring manifest promise to my little slice of prairie. Now there's but to see if they stay cerulean, or choose on their own to adopt a different shade.
Whether or not I make it up to Superior this spring as planned, I'll be damned grateful to find out either way...
