Unpremeditated Art

In the early evening, a lark sat singing in a high branch of the mulberry tree. It is no wonder that so many poems have been written about these birds. Their rich and complex song is quite remarkable, as is the fact that so small a creature can produce such a volume of sound. Their music seems to fill the sky and fix the moment within the pattern of their melody. Branch and sky and air all seem more alive when the lark sings.

I find their music especially suited to the mild evenings of early spring. It is the aural counterpart of the soft air and the varried colors of the blossoms, of new growth and the subtle scent of freshly watered grass. As I watched this bird against the pale sky, it sudddenly took wing and flew a few dozen yards to the top of a pine tree which still caught the last rays of the setting sun. After a few more bars of music, it flew away through the screen of trees to the north. I was left to await moonrise with only the empty sky and the faint croaking of distant frogs.

Whew!

Given the time of year, I guess this qualifies as a heat wave. The trees seem to be enjoying it. I have never seen the oak in my backyard leaf out so quickly, or the leaves turn a dark green so soon after developing. Some of the oaks are still leafless, though. Maybe they are in shock from the sudden change in the weather. But all sorts of plants have burst into bloom, almost overnight. Little good it will do them if the bees don't soon arrive. The hives must be infested with those mites again.

Also, I notice that Frank has finally finished his birthday cake. He's back to his old grey self. Any bets on what color I'll be seeing him wearing tomorrow?