The tiny green buds sprouting today all over what only yesterday were brown sad dessicated trees.
The color of sunlight bursting through the decreasing patches of muddy brown as the radiant and well-named Gold Finches shed their drab winter coat.
The cream-and-yolk-yellow daffodils, with their Wordsworth-giddy heads erupting from their tall green stalks, like daytime fireworks.
The birds singing with operatic gusto, as if they hadn't had the chance to exercise their vocal cords in a long long time.
The dogs walking with their goofy faces in full display, wacky grins spread wide, tongues hanging out, and fish-eyes bulging, anticipating all they will discover in their daily detective work.
The opened windows, inviting the cool breeze that ushers out the stale smells of a house closed onto itself too long and delivers the perfume of life emerging, unstoppable and new.
The spring peepers, Ohio cousins of the diminutive too-cute-to-be-true coquí, rehearsing their hymns, like the devoted chorus of an outdoor church.
My husband and I, sitting outside in our small deck until the light is too low to read and the mosquitoes (the truest, if least appealing, sign of spring) are out for blood.
How not to love the spring when it arrives so willingly, with such self-confidence and desire to please?
1 comment:
How have I not yet written to say "yes, yes"? I will add: getting to bare my arms. Getting to go without socks. Getting to drag a chair into the front yard.
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