The Spring that Almost Wasn't

Ever meandered through weeks, doing all the normal everyday things with which we fill our lives, only to realize that you've let other things, things that really matter to you, slip right through your fingers?

Yes, Mayor, Sis and I have planted our several plots at the community garden.  More on that later.  Yes, I've had lovely asparagus, onions, and lettuce from the garden on the North Forty.  Yes, truckloads of winter debris have systematically been removed from the North Forty.  Multiple trips to multiple greenhouses on multiple occasions have been made.  Garden projects have been started and finished. A normal spring, yet . . .

I just about let spring slip right through my fingers.

So, tonight I set out to make things as right as I could.

 

As dusk approached, I padded barefoot across the rain-soaked lawn to the tiny patio next to the garden on the North Forty.  I swiped the water droplets off one of the green plastic Adirondack chairs with my hand and had a seat. 

A few random leftover raindrops aimlessly plopped out of the sky, making a nice sound as they landed - on the leaves, on the pebbled patio, and on the metal table beside me. 

The yellowy beige and blue sky began to turn a glorious peach, darkening to orange, before fading once again to a grey blue.  As the day's last light faded, the once green leaves of the oaks became black, silhouetted against the deepening blue sky.

 

The robins, who make their home in the oaks bordering the North Forty, flitted from tree to tree, filling the air with their chatty bed-time birdsong.  A throaty toad joined in from a distance. 

 

Soon, the robins fell asleep, and the bats made their appearance, dipping and weaving in clockwise circles inside the perimeter of the oaks.  First, one, then another, and then another, very quickly and very quietly.  Toad continued his serenade, which seemed to grow louder in the absence of the birdsong.

 

The heady, sweet smell of honeysuckle filled the air, carried in on the faintest breeze from the hills beyond the North Forty. 

 

 

A train's whistle wailed in the distance.

 

I hoped to see the lightning bugs rise from the lawn, but not this night.

 

Spring was finally as it should be.  As I padded back across the yard to the house, I was so grateful not to have missed this rite of spring.