At six, when I finally finished yesterday’s deliverable, which I had foolishly thought would be done by noon, I had to close the window behind my desk, as the early spring sun was losing some of its potency. The few buds beginning to appear on the forsythia and lilac bushes no longer caught the sun’s rays; the jays and chickadees that had visited us during the day had vanished, getting ready to cozy up for the night.

Mrs. P surprised and delighted me by asking if I wanted to walk: I was planning on doing so, but thought that she had not finished what she was doing and I would have to go out alone. With still an hour or so of daylight, we went to our usual haunt, the state park a mile from home.

Thus we began to emerge from our winter cocoon.

Not burst, mind you. We’re a bit too creaky for that. More of a slow unfolding, a tentative stretching out of stiff limbs.

The park was not gorgeous. The snowy winter and the heavy rain and high winds of the recent monsoon have done much damage. Many trees were down and others maimed. The long flat path along the creek was covered by mud in the lowest stretches, remnants of overflow. One section was marred by the shards of a fallen tree, pieces of carefully cut trunk on either side of the path after the rangers had cut them to clear the walkway. Shrubbery was still bare, and trees appeared yet lifeless.

The fauna, though, was lively. There were couples of all ages, people walking their dogs, and young families with kids, the younger types in shorts, the older ones a bit bundled, uncertain that the day’s waning warmth was sufficient for older blood. Squirrels scurried, seeking anything remotely edible. Robins sang to each other, proclaiming territory, or perhaps simply declaring satisfaction with having survived. 

One little black terrier, no bigger than a football, tagged along behind its owner. The dog was carrying a small twig in its mouth. It would drop the twig, run circles around it, jump from time to time, pick it up and trot along behind the owner, and then repeat the process. Joy in life.

At the causeway over the creek, we saw the trunk of a huge tree that had been, carried downstream, and trapped against the concrete walk. More damage from the winter’s rages.

On the other side of the creek, the flora showed signs of waking. We spotted the first wildflowers of the season—delicate little yellow darlings (buttercups?) that were growing alongside the path. Farther up, the brown splotches of lawn gave way to an expanse of bright green sprouts, marsh grass beginning to pop its head into the air. A pair of Canada geese waddled along the raised bank of the creek, checking out nature’s open houses, unencumbered by mortgage worries.

With the sun sinking further, we retraced our steps. As we neared the parking lot, we passed a section of woods where the still-bare beeches and maples nearest us were backed by a stretch of pines. There, the powerful scent of fresh pine mixed with fecund earth seeped into our consciousness.

Nature awakens.

Words © 2010 AtHome Pilgrim.

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