Spring always comes in a rush of sound and color. Robins call from the trees, “Mine, mine, mine, this tree is mine!” Red winged blackbirds bob up and down on the cattails near the swamp, chittering to one another. Geese and ducks return to the pond and gabble incessantly as they stake out nesting sites. A chipmunk scolds from high in the big pine as I rake pine needles and dead flower stalks from the garden beds. There under the leaf mold, wearing a crown of last year’s maple leaves is a daffodil’s bright green spears and vivid yellow trumpet. There is nothing so determined as a flower in spring.
Everywhere I look, this year’s birth is running into last year’s death. The new grass, emerald green, is smothering last year’s lawn killed by the winter cold. The goldenrod that bloomed in lemony profusion last September has been reduced to dry spindly stalks that lean together in bent and broken disarray. My rake uncovers the pale green leaves of daylilies and the rounded, darker green leaves of violets. Crocus, not waiting for me, are in full bloom, their Easter-colored petals making bright spots in the drab border.
There is an urgency to the season. Days of rain followed by warm sun encourage rapid growth. The seeds and bulbs won’t wait. My back aches from bending and lifting, my arms are covered with scratches where the recalcitrant rose brambles and the sharp ends of flower stalks have cut them, but my heart sings at the sight of the first blossoms. I have uncovered spring!