I love this time of year… the calendar tells me it's winter, but the wind and sun and the warmth on my skin tell me differently. The cold air seems to be held off by the breath of spring. The evenings are pleasant and we gravitate toward the yard… the neighbors are there… the children of the neighborhood sing the songs of spring and fill the air with sounds of activity.
The mornings are filled with the dew of the night air. The tea-olive bush that hides in the backyard makes itself known. Light puffs of perfume swirl around the house into the neighborhood. The dark green wild onion weeds are a dramatic contrast to the straw colored carpet of sleeping grass. The edges of the yard seem to call out for grooming attention.
One short walk through the streets is a carnival to the eyes. Brilliant yellow bushes on the corners of quaint little houses cascade their willow-like branches to the ground like the fireworks of the summer season. The Bradford Pear trees that line our streets draw the eye toward the windy skies. The glossy white flowers cover every branch and stem.
The birch trees that I planted as small twigs tower over our yard. The gentle drippings of flowing sap plop against the dried leaves on the ground in a metronomic rhythm. The watery sap will soon stain the ground and driveway to remind me of the many seasons I have watched them grow.
I watched a blue bird on a quest for the perfect home. He is the scout for the family. I placed a bird house on the back fence years ago in hopes of attracting the brilliant colors of a blue bird. Each year, a scout will come to the house… he disappears inside to inspect the confines. This year, he sat in the hole which has been enlarged by a gnawing squirrel and looked upon the back yard. He flew to a near by branch of a red bud tree… he hopped around on a perching branch and swooped back to the house. He then flew to the fence and again, back to the house… I won’t know of his decision until early spring.
Shannon R Killman
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