I fell in love with the southern spring in 1991, driving through the drizzle in rural Georgia, yards lit up with phlox — all the more brilliant set off by the soft grey light. (This stuff. I didn’t know what it was at the time.) Even the interstates are beautiful right now, lined by a patchwork of pale greens — each tree standing out for few short weeks, until the newborn leaves mature and darken, receding for the summer into a uniform chunk of forest backdrop.
Dogwoods and azaleas are on duty this month, a consolation for gardeners vexed by the haphazard weather. It’s been violet-wilting hot one day, tomato-freezing cold the next. And we won’t mention the little tornadoes that dropped in the other night. (Not a sign of trouble in our corner, despite the noisy wind through the night, not even the still-open patio umbrella was disturbed. But a colleague out in the county had her grain silo flipped over. Mischievous weather.)
The last waves of the migratory birds are turning out at the feeders — colorful strangers you only see twice a year, never long enough to identify. We had a hummingbird at our porch the other evening; I’m hopeful those will stick it out for the summer. I wonder if anyone knows when the monarchs pass through? We watched them travel home one fall — October? — while camping at the Cove, but we’ve never crossed paths on their northern journey. Will keep an eye out.
I just went to peek and see if our eastern bluebirds are still at home in the hollowed-out maple. She and I surprised each other, face-to-face for an instant, then we both ducked away, too shy.
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