tall grass prairie

big sky
white straw grass, just beginning to green
solitary twiggy twisted trees
copses tucked into the indentation of the hills
wind
birds of the grasses--meadowlarks, kildeer, blackbirds, and then a totally unexpected wonder, foot-long tail, vivid salmon shoulder pads, a scissor-tailed flycatcher.

leaving home

Blasting out of the ordinary is easier when I travel. Unless it's to a very familiar place, I'm surrounded by the new--not always positive or enchanting, but able to raise my level of being aware, outside of my self.
We're traveling though parts of the South we've missed before, filling up on new sounds, sights, and oh my goodness tastes. Routines are abandoned, miles on the road dissolve, as we wend our way from the Tall Grass Prairie of Oklahoma through the Ozarks--both far more beautiful than anticipated.
Today: Little Rock, and then on to Memphis.

sleepless night

A sleepless night. Sitting at the computer, with a cup of tea, while it's still pitch black out as far as I can tell, I hear the softest song:
http://www.learnbirdsongs.com/birdsong.php?id=12
It's a sound that speaks Spring to me. This chickadee and his mate have moved into the nesting box I've hung just outside the window, and his melody, murmured to his mate, notes the onset of the day.

after a rain

Almost April, and it's raining. On our last March walk, the river was the lowest I have ever seen, roots exposed in sinewy twists down to rocks along the channels. But then a soft rain began, continued for several days, and is returning.

mid-march canal

These tiny eraser-sized flowers turn a field into a blue haze. Only laying on my belly can I see the singular delicate regularity of each blossom.

Native witchhazel, the demure forerunner of the showy hybridized models in the market, invokes an olfactory memory of walks in the woods with my father when I was a little child: a broken twig, a pleasantly fresh, just-shy-of-linament aroma.

In a damp expanse of grasses, still not sprung, the marsh marigolds shine out, waxy, reflective of the late afternoon sun.

the pace picks up

By mid-March, things in the garden start moving. Every day, there's a new delight, whether violas that followed us home from the nursery or Costco, or iris reticulata mimicking butterflies at the foot of the mailbox, or a perfect hellebore rising above its winter-burnt leaves

forcing

Forcing. It's an odd verb when applied to cherry blossoms, implying coercion or a breaking of will. I'm innocent! I bring a branch indoors, out of the 30's and into the 60's, merely providing a nudge.