Gray Morning

Something I forgot to do yesterday was check the utility pole to see if my woodpeckers had gathered there to stay out of the rain. (I do think of them as my woodpeckers now, as they have hung about the place throughout the winter.) I was just reminded of it because one of them is there now, chattering and pecking even though no rain is falling. Just breakfast, I guess. The damp world is placid bathed in this gray light, but I think we will see the sun today. A single pair of migrating waterfowl skimmed the treetops moments ago, calling loudly. They were black, and had very long necks. Some sort of swan, I would think. Leaving so late, they might find all the best spots taken once they arrive at their destination. Some of the local birds must be having a difficult time this year, too, there are so many of them. I don't remember a year since I arrived here when they have been so numerous. I have already seen three crow wars, with large murders chasing one another from place to place, trying to establish territorial dominance. The other species of birds are equally abundant, and recent days have rarely been without song. The fruit trees will have to be carefully guarded this year, and the insects are apt to be decimated. It is certain to be a lively, and deadly, spring.

Damp

I found a vase to hold the lilacs I cut from the branch which the bush lost to yesterday's storm. They bring an elusive fragrance as pale and subtle as their color. Though their afterlife will be brief, their presence cheers the room. The corner of my eye sometimes sees them as a small cloud, and I half expect to see them drift as did the actual clouds which turned afternoon gray. I think it is the softening of colors which gives spring's gray afternoons their romantic quality. Winter gray is sombre with green and brown, but spring's varied pallet, so vibrant in sunlight, lends to a muted day some of its energy, gentling itself in the process. All afternoon the filtered light made the landscape seem antique, like a faded print of a Victorian garden where women in voluminous pastel dresses wandered, distracted and vague, daydreaming. It makes no sense, I know, but that is the image the day brought to my mind.

Tonight, there is mist, and the clouds glow with the light of the moon they conceal. They are like lavish theater curtains, about to open on some spectacle, some grand entertainment for which only the most splendid hall is fit. The mist-dusted forest night is perfect, vast and expectant, hushed, thronged with dark forms waiting for the sky to open and shower them with starlight.