One more thing... OR a lovely kettle...

I forgot to mention the exquisitely choreographed dance Thomas and I witnessed on our walk the other day. I counted at least sixty buzzards, slowly, gracefully, an act of worship it seemed, in measured swoops, no big hurry, drifting in and around one another, honoring the moon. The creator of the moon. The evening sky, and their tribe.

I never knew buzzards to be graceful. Now their evening dances are lovely to me, as they celebrate the end of the day and move in to roost.

Yesterday, after hours of blustery wind, the air was filled with sandy particulate from the Sahara desert or somewhere dusty and dry. I could see no periwinkle skies turning purple. But the buzzards danced anyway.

PS I realize many folks are not so fond of the vulture, but they are quite helpful, taking care of highway cleanup. I don't plan on adopting any, or having them roost in my trees! But really, you should check them out. A group of dancing vultures is called a kettle. Did you know that?

Is it full yet?

Thomas and I took Brownie and Blackie for a two mile walk after dinner this evening.

The air was balmy. The wildflowers were subtle but precious, tissue paper yellow, pinks white and lavender, scattered here and there along the path. The setting sun shone through the trees along the creek as we crossed the bridge. Fluff from the cottonwood trees floated, glowing in the evening sun. It looked like fairies, flying off to a party in the woods.

Things are very dry here, so instead of blankets of flowers this year, there are meager patches here and there.

I wonder if I might appreciate them more when they are so rare.

We paused to admire the giant full moon make her way up and over the university campus mountain east of our neighborhood. Broad and generous, with a glittering star hanging directly overhead. Of course I made a wish! Rose and Nora tell me that it was not a star, but probably the planet Venus. I don't care. I think my wish counted anyway. And no, of course I can't tell you.

Pink cotton candy clouds stretched across the sky. The trees are now dressed in green. As the sun dipped further below the horizon, blue sky turned purple, mountains turned grey. The dogs were delighted with their stroll, and so was I. Thomas and I don't talk a lot, but his quiet companionship is quite comforting to me.

Purple Haze

Smells like purple!

The wisteria are in crazy full bloom. The fragrance permeates our yard, both front and back. Old-fashioned and pungent, cloyingly sweet. The mountain laurels are in full flower tilt as well. They fill the chicken yard with the smell of grape soda! My mouth waters, remembering the fizzy stuff that filled our summer trips to the filling station with my dad in the early seventies. Purple irises wave their school spirit flags, and smell like Easter to me.

Walking around my yard is an aromatic, sensual experience these days! And perhaps the source of my scratchy throat and itchy eyes?

Dare we Hope for Early Figs?

Fig trees are leafing out and covered in little baby figs. The oak tree is sporting what looks like a chartreuse veil. Red buds are gaudy and tucked in the back, neglected part of the yard, partially hidden by our guest cottage (I mean, pop up tent trailer), a kerria japonica tries her hardest to grab my attention, and succeeds regularly, as you can tell, since I have sprays of her beautiful blossoms decorating most of the rooms in my house.

Wisteria that was frozen last year is now covered in an extravagant display of fragrant clusters, just poised to open this weekend.

Have you noticed how easy it is to be optimistic in springtime?

The flowers keep shouting and whispering, clucking and whistling to get my attention. "Hey! We did it! We made it through the dark days and can lift our heads up high once again." So I tell them thank you for the reminder, and let them know I am absolutely blown away by their beauty, and am really proud of them. And gather armfuls of sweet joy to bring into the house.

I read a Mary Oliver poem the other day, depicting another side of spring I like very much: Out of the Stump Rot. Not so frilly. Quite raw and real. And also wonderful in its life. So if you are not feeling the flowers and fragrance, check out her poem!