The bones of this decaying leaf nestled on lush cozy moss caught my eye. I got down low to look and listen.
I've heard the woods come to life before, two years ago, the first warm evening of Spring. I stood outside, on the edge of the woods with my puppy on a quiet night. From everywhere came a tiny rustling under the leaves, and at first my monkey brain registered fear, visualizing spiders, snakes, voles, creepy crawlies crawling toward me. The forest floor was alive with crinkling leaves. Curiosity overcame fear and I began to question, to look for the source of the noise. What could there be that many of, moving in unison? Crickets? No, because I would see them, and they would be chirping. What then? I walked further into the trail, got down low and listened carefully. It was not a march but an uprising. I was listening to the forest wildflowers breaking through the fallen leaves, pushing them aside, or poking right through them in a glorious awakening. The sun had warmed the earth just enough and they used every last bit of its energy to rise up and break through. I used a little stick to lift up the deepest layers of leaves, and there they were, just crowning the soil's surface. Trillium, Jack in the pulpit, ferns, soloman's seal, virginia creeper, all crinkling and crackling to life in the dark, hoping to break free in time to face the morning sun. My senses tingled, not from fear but in awe. I stayed there a while, until the evening chill and the puppy brought me back inside. But I listened, and payed homage to the amazing forces that surround me, to the miracle of the seasons and to the wonder of
hearing it happen. I felt a part of everything.
I try to find that night every year now. It will be soon. Very soon.
On this day, amidst the riot of bird song, I heard a little crinkling beneath the leaves, and spotted this new arrival. The leaf hopper was sitting atop a dead leaf, collecting warmth, with no new leaves to hop yet in March. I think this early warm spell might doom him if a bird doesn't eat him first.
This hole in my oldest hickory tree fascinates me. I wonder who shelters in there, maybe squirrels or chipmunks. The decaying oaks house owls and hawks. Somewhere a lone opossum makes its home. I wonder what shape I'll see in it this time. Somedays it looks like an old woman, which is how I think of the tree. She is the mother of half the trees in my woods. Very fertile. I wonder what you see when you look at this hole where her first limb used to be.
And saving the best for last, my favorite Spring bulbs are up.
