Trumpets of Spring

We walked to town this afternoon, eastward. From roadsides to sidewalks, sometimes on the edges of yards. The cool gray day had a chill. But along our route we spotted the trumpets of spring. The ornamental blossoms, butter yellows, faint whites, clustered in the corners. There, a planned chorus, a subdivided ensemble cultivated for show. Here a forgotten trail, left to flower and spread seed down to the creek. My favorites are the empty green plots, former homesteads now parklike, guarded by the big trees, trimmed in daffodil. Back at home, a couple miles west, our few are beginning to warm up; preparing their fanfare.

Our Home's Shadow

The view from the front yard, up to the rising moon, revealed our nightly beacon passing through our home's shadow. In and out of the night clouds it traveled, teased, tested patience. As ancient clockhand it ticked quietly into the treetops. A reminder of mysterious time, battery free, unplugged. It beckoned us 6 times to the dark yard, simply now, to acknowledge our own presence.

The Poet's Walk

Heather was housebound with a flu for 3 days. Yesterday, in late afternoon sun, we shared a walk, the Poet's Walk. The old Ayr Mount property near downtown, with gentle slopes, long fields, and the rocky Eno River, is a public space of beauty. We are thankful.

Blanket for the Night

Mid-week we got a surprise snow. It came in the night. Rain had fallen most of the afternoon, and the temperatures steadily dropped. I was up late in the dark kitchen in a glow of computer light. The windows creaked with a wind gust. Hillsborough was getting a blanket for the night. I went out, put fresh tracks down the steps, around to the garden. Stood briefly, still, listening to the flakes and wind.

No Restful Garden

It was another sunny Saturday. 65 degrees. From the warm windowed kitchen, while eating my eggs, I watched the birds in late morning. A Carolina Wren darted after little winged insects. The bluebird couple perched on lookout. I sensed Spring, even if premature, I sensed it and decided to inspect the sleeping garden. Later, after turning the compost and discovering more bugs, I took the pitchfork and long fork into the garden. The beds were soft, easily scratched. Mine was no restful garden. Here too, the insects were active, the worms were active. I became active. First turning in the winter leaves, then straitening the borders, then plucking the exposed stones, and finally trimming back last years young fig tree. I’ll look through my seed catalogue tonight, review last year’s journal and begin designing the layout for the upcoming seasons. Green will be here soon.

A Nest in Winter

As I was leaving the office the other day, I released a slow breath and glanced up at a few trees lining the path to my car. Not too far overhead, tucked tight against the bare branches, sat a little well-trimmed bird’s nest. I pay attention to birds…have since I was a kid. Finding a secret nest still brings me a child’s pleasure of surprise. Winter exposes many secrets of nature and I remain ever-curious. This day I wondered “what’s in a nest in winter?” Is there a huddled little finch, or two, asleep in that twiggy cocoon of their youth? Or maybe a gypsy junco, stealing away a night and then moving on? I’ve read about nests. There are the bigger nests, the lofty squirrel clutches, where indeed group survival depends on the warm retreats of snowy winter. Then the little bird nests. They are of course the egg homes, the brood camps. Mostly they are abandoned in winter…the proverbial “empty nest” season.

But as I walked to my car I acknowledged that a nest in winter holds the promise of spring, the memories of youth, and some answers to our hidden secrets.

A Creek Once More

Beyond the edge of the yard lies a shallow creekbed. In a roughly skewed line it declines for just short of a mile to feed the Eno river. Along this corridor the deer travel and birds bathe. It dried up back in August, cracked dirt and rocky. Even through fall it was dry. I walked down in it, looked for old arrowheads. The corridor shifted and the animals stayed closer to the bigger river. There is a shady bend in the creekbed just before it straitens out near our piece of land. It is a rich tuft of land, green with fern and grass. Water usually pools at the edge, swirls against a big rock and a downed tree. A few blackbirds often gather below the bank, shielded by a thicket, where they chatter and splash in a lively group bath. It has been quiet for awhile.

But yesterday I walked to that finger of land, trees bare and exposed, to check on the water. It has returned, to feed the river, and there is a creek once more. A sparrow took a brief dip and again we live along the corridor.