
After unseasonal weeks in which the mercury rose well past sixty, it’s fourteen this morning, with a foot of snow on the ground and more falling from the sky every moment.
Winter has, for the moment, driven Spring back, reclaiming its rightful place as the prevailing, presiding spirit of February.
But however short its visit, however temporary its stay, Spring nonetheless managed in those weeks to sow seeds, to midwife bloom and color, to call its acolytes to sing of its its hope and promise, to herald its eventual arrival.
And so the silvery trunks and branches of the aspens, stark and glowing against winter’s indigo sky, are no longer entirely bare. From a distance, the buds are only barely visible, tiny scarlet nodules adorning each slender branch like the lights on a holiday tree.
Up close, they’re so much more.
No longer merely buds enclosed in a hard protective shell, a crimson cocoon — like their distant relations, caterpillar and butterfly, the chrysalis opens to the warmth of the sun and the metamorphosis from winter hibernation to spring animation begins in earnest.
The catkins, that quintessential marker of Spring’s impending arrival, will soon blanket the aspens’ hard-chilled branches, warming their bare bones while they await the greenleaf robe begat by a warmer sun.
Of course, in the old way, a birth is greeted with song.
On this day, spring has chosen as her herald an unassuming singer, one of small stature and garb still muted by winter, but with a clear and bell-like voice.
And though it’s early yet, Starling has already begun the process of trading her winter regalia for the brighter accents of the warmer season, throwing off the shawl beaded with gentle white dots that allow her some degree of camouflage amidst the snow, donning instead the one with brilliant multi-colored beads.
Thus garbed, she takes her place near the topmost branch of the aspen’s apex . . . .
And she sings the song of Winter receding into Spring.
~ Aji
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