The sky is a woolen comforter this morning, a perfect companion for a rainy day and a cup of tea. It was partly cloudy last night. Again. Leo the Lion prowled high overhead, only a few of his stars glimmering through the haze.
Well phooey, this won’t work for a sky post.
I trudged along, thinking. It’s another Alt-Text Friday, a time to use words to translate a bit of the universe. Cloudy days confine me to my favorite planet, so Earth-bound, I look down, and notice Spring.
Early Spring
The change of season is easier to feel, hear, and smell than to see. The air is softer, the smell of the neighbor’s woodstove on the breeze incongruous with the first hints of pollen.
Poor Smudge, the visiting stallion. He has allergies. Who ever heard of a horse with hay fever? What’s next, lactose intolerant cows?
In a parallel universe, maybe there’s talking cows and snarky bovine baristas serving up coffee to get ‘em through their cushy workdays. “A double almond milk latte for Elsie, and a fireball for Mrs. O’Leary’s Guardian.” (She wouldn’t be Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow. Mrs. O’Leary would be hers, and they’d have solved the Chicago problem by leaving it burnt the first time around since cows run this world, yessir.)
But I digress…
The sounds of the season ring in the air. By day, Bluebirds chirp and squabble over territory. At night, tiny frogs - spring peepers - sing to impress the lady frogs down by the cattle pond.
The Sights
Still, the woods and pastures look wintry, clad in drab shades.
Things are more green, but there’s a subtlety to it all that’s easy to miss, even for the eagle-eyed if they’re not looking.
True, the daffodils have started to bloom, their miniature paper sun faces outshining their icy green leaves. The grass notices though, and gradually wakes up to the business of photosynthesis.
I wandered among the slumbering fields, crouching to look at tiny flowers in the grass, each one no bigger than the width of a ballpoint pen’s barrel.
Miniature white stars of Chickweed, purple nodding blooms of the Deadnettle, pale blue unidentified flowers as fresh as an April morning all stared back from a tiny patch of grass by an old shed. The leaves were shades of vibrant emerald mixed with dry grass of winter brown.
Standing up and viewing them from six feet in the air, they blurred into a vague patch of life.
I trudged on.
There, in the grass by a fencepost - streaks of fuchsia so brilliantly neon that it should be illegal in nature - tiny hints of something. Henbit! The trumpet-shaped ornate flowers were also miniscule, but their vivid pink color boldly announced their arrival in rose-sized notes.
If the spirit of Feminine glamor were to have an official flower, this would be a wise choice. No matter what, no matter where, Nature has a timeless ability sprinkle beauty anywhere, even in the obscure backwaters of the fenceline, making the Dandelions trip over themselves eternally.
The Overall
I turned to head back inside. Don’t burn breakfast. Pausing at the path to the back pasture, I contemplated the silent oaks, still in their winter gray pajamas. My gaze drifted up the mountain.
Something was different. How could I write it? The color was the same, although the budding maples had given the ridgeline a softer, fuzzier look, tinged with the vaguest ideas of red and purple.
What was this like?
Ah, that.
If the Gray Sky asked the sleepy Earth if she loved him back, this is the pause between the question, and the Answer.
She opens her mouth, and the sound of her breath is the bluebird, and the daffodil.
She hasn’t answered yet.
But she will.
And that’s what it looks like to me.
Treasures from Earth
I like to conclude our observations with an Appreciation - a way of keeping the flame alive, of remembering why it’s nice to be an Earthling. It’s a good day for subtlety, beauty, nature, and spring-like clear notes. It’s a good day for some Greig. Dig these Lyric Pieces. And have a great weekend!