Used to be a few big willow trees along this stretch of road not long ago.  All except this one cut down for one reason or another over the last few years.  I used to enjoy watching the daily progress of the long thin leaves day by day.  This one is too far out in private property to watch close up, but I can still enjoy the blush of yellowish green becoming more and more prominent.

Everything is improving around here.  Improving means that trees are cut to make better views, parks are leveled and fenced in to please the lawyers, houses are enlarged gigantically to block the views of those behind them, and every square inch of waterfront is crammed with boats, boat racks, picnic tables, and for sale signs indicating yet another giant building is imminent.  Sometimes I think this part of the world deserves its fate to be underwater soon _ a tiny bit of sympathy with Noah.

Forsythia opened up overnight, but unfortunately this is the only example in a halfway natural setting, crushed in a Sandy-ravaged patch of forgotten roadway.  Daffodils are everywhere.  It’s nice to finally have patches of brilliant yellow all over the landscape.

The whole landscapes are patchy this year.  Some sheltered places are in full bloom and leaf, green and multiple colors, halfway to summer.  Others look as if they are sleeping late, waiting for clearer signs to show up.  As I walk this week, I encounter both, seemingly at random.  Doesn’t matter, I’m grateful for any sign that the season is finally underway.


Along with the sap in the plant kingdom, oil in the machine phyla is becoming less sludgy.  Apparently there are to be significant changes to the dock and banks here.  Necessary work, or unnecessary, it is all a mystery until it is done.

I’m always a little sad, since I get so used to the old views.  It’s no different that the work of high tide storms or hurricanes, of course.  Nothing in this impermanent world can last, and we all know we must let go as the days go by.  That’s what memories are for, and as an old man I am filled with them at least.  I like to believe they don’t change, but of course I am wrong.

Nope, these plants aren’t waiting any longer, jumping up and out.  The heck with freezing temperatures, blasting wind, and snow they seem to say.  I’m green and I’m proud and ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me.  Oh, you think maybe I’m falling into anthropomorphism again?

Weather and seasons cannot help but affect our mood as much as hormones.  Or, at least, they work through and with our hormones.  Some of us fight that by strictly ignoring the natural tides, others give in and wallow helplessly in emotions beyond control.  I try to let externals trigger possibilities, but whether or not I let them rule my day is more up to my own rationality.


Sometime soon, in the space of an hour or so, if the temperature gains ten degrees from these low forties, this carpet of emerald will transform into a cover of gold.  Celadine is about the most reliable indicator of the actual status of spring, a true way to measure if the season is behind or ahead of schedule.  It shows up everywhere, but never se
ems to intrude on either native nor cultivated plantings _ always seems to be somewhere that nothing else wants to grow.

I had obviously thought that this week would cause take off for foliage and flowers, but it has all been foiled by three nights of freezing temperatures and days where highs struggle to get above the average low temperature for the date.  It’s not nasty, exactly, and the cold does preserve the blooming flowers for much longer than if it suddenly got hot.  But, like a little kid, I can’t wait for some summery warmth when I can go outside and play without my coat on.

Wild beach roses starting nicely, with last year’s rose hips still hanging on.  Soon it will be difficult to walk down here without getting stuck by thorns. 

Already, I have seen a solitary fisherman standing on this shore, hoping I guess for winter flounder.  I’m not much of a fisherman, anything that takes more patience than pulling out snappers one after another on a pleasant August afternoon tends to bore me.  But I do tend to have a soft spot for those that cast lines, especially from the shoreline.  I think it is their own deep meditation with nature in a specific time and place, and that is always admirable.

The only plant that seems to arrive growing a foot or more a day is the appropriately named pokeweed.  Another invasive species, of course, and possibly the early shoots are edible.  Most of the great patches of it around here have remained hibernating, but for some reason this group jumped up a day or so ago.  In no time it will be four feet or more fully screening the harbor. 

By that point, obscuring parts of this end of the harbor will have advantages.  The boats are about to arrive en masse, making stretches of water become floors of fiberglass and wood which you can walk across from one short to another.  A forest of masts will waver above them, mostly decorative since all these sailors use combustion engines ninety percent of the time, with sails pretty much as optional decorations.  Mild weather will make the water growth even more instantaneous than that on land.



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