"In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love."
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Lockley Hall
They must sense light just as it creeps up, or see more alertly with their round bright eyes, those small birds that bring such an exuberant start to the morning. The crows come soon after, cawing in their complaining way. Then the gulls waking up and calling as the charcoal sky expires in the pale ash dregs of night.
Everything is reproducing. A new, thicker layer of yellow pollen on the neighbourhood cars each day. Seeds fall onto the patio from the broad leafed maples, arbutus. Seeds, seed casings, something. Tree garbage to be swept, swept away. Oh, there's more.
Everything bursting forth, springing up, unfurling, greening.
Gone the first pleasure of crocus and snow drop, even daffodil. Now bluebells crowd the slopes and Mexican jasmine flowers white, and the petals of dogwood like little platforms displaying the light the sun spills onto the thawing earth, coaxing open lilacs, that comforting lilac-colour and also white. Their fragrance blesses ivory legged passers-by wearing sandals and shorts.
Dandelions along every ditch, every path. Puffy grey heads of seed stars. Early cherry and plum blossoms fade as apple flowers take the stage.
