The forsythia is beginning to bloom and will be at its riotous peak in less than a week, followed immediately by the wild dogwood that glows white-green at dawn and dusk, so much prettier than the cultivated variety. The industrious carpenter ants are marching in search of a place to build their summer encampment. I refuse to surrender my kitchen, not even the dark damp space behind the Bunn, not even if they promise to leave the oat bran alone.
The birch and maple look like they have a 5 o'clock shadow of pale green stubble, but the stubborn oaks are holding out for a few sunny days in the 70s before they concede winter's passage. Fitting, since they're the last to let go in the fall. The curmudgeons of deciduousness. The pines, ever envious that they have no spectacular seasonal displays, are preparing to throw a heavy pollen tantrum that turns the storm water run-off into a piss & cinder soup.
The kids are already pestering to wear shorts and sandals, and the first notes of the weekend lawnmower symphony have been heard, although the blades aren't yet giving up their greenscent nor is the wild onion yet carried on the breeze.
The back meadow is almost ready to burst into a viney, wildflower extravaganza. It was cleared last fall, so while the deer are thrilled, the snakes and frogs and small furry critters are vulnerable to the red-tailed hawks that swoop from one side to the other, occasionally snagging a meaty treat.
And the storms. I adore the storms.
I my mountains.