The Sound of Spring

Beneath the myriad leafless giants and towering loblolly pines, a lonely wanderer wends his way through the lowland forest.

Last week's rain-swollen torrent well on its way to the sea by now, the swamp stands silent save for the steady chorus of Pseudacris crucifer, whose amphibious anthem heralds the advent of spring.

Red-tipped twigs of maple whisper softly of life renewed, and just there, along winter's barren vine, perch tender tufts of freshest green; they whisper, too, of spring.

Behind the scenes, another traveler plies the creekside path. 

Silent, for now. Unseen. Wild, untamed spirit. 

Later, he will speak. 

And the woods will fairly echo with the sound of spring.

Alas, so little of the seasons sees the wanderer;

least of all Spring. 

Thanksgiving

Slender stems cast long shadows in the western wood as late-winter sun begins its setting. 

Lifeless leaves, bronzed by the beams of February's final hours, set the stage for a flickering show of shades, cavorting in the chilly breeze upon the forest floor. 

Amidst the flickering shadows, a hundred dozen golden pixies dance among living leaves of purple and green, born anew from death and damp and decay.

Carnival of blooms, a miniature Mardi Gras, Mystic Krewe of Erythronium, the floral avant-garde, heralding the resurrection and the life that are Spring.

Diminutive dancers, timeless testament to the tenacity of life. 

A performance repeated a thousand thousand times, here in the silent wood; 

a mere four dozen cycles coincident with the one called mine.

Too many I've missed. 

What moved me here, on just this day, at just this hour?

A dance; and too, a song, or perhaps a prayer...

"For the beauty of each hour, 

of the day and of the night,

hill and vale, and tree and flower,

sun and moon, and stars of light,

Lord of all, to thee we raise,

this our hymn of grateful praise."

"For The Beauty of the Earth"

-F.S. Pierpoint