Great Angelica is emerging in the wetlands, like a dramatic actress performing on the wetland stage, she slowly unfurls her giant leaves from a stem that could dwarf the trunk of a sapling. Marsh marigolds are going to seed leaving only the memory of their sunny yellow flowers as their leaves reach higher to gather more sunlight above the lowly stream.
A mother red-winged blackbird flees from her nest as I approach to admire her young – at this point just three green eggs dappled with brown streaks that resemble bits of grass. She sounds an alarm at this intrusion attracting others to her aid. I depart.
A ribbon of water has spilled from the pond into its normal channel washing out part of the trail and leaving wet mud interspersed with puddles in its wake. The paved trail is being undermined by the water as the trail builders miscalculated the power of the seasonal stream and what many drops of water can do when they unite. It is spring – cold dampness interspersed with sun and occasional temperature spikes which bring out mosquitoes and hasten wasps to begin new colonies.
Ez asked how many months there are in spring, and I told him three – March, April, and May, but the weather has been oscillating between winter, spring, and summer for the last month. There is no hurry for summer with its prairie heat, mosquitoes, and ticks. We find two toads on our walk tonight, as an occasional mosquito buzzes about our ankles. It is nearly summer. School will be out in another week and half – it would have been sooner if not for snow days, but there are no unplanned days off that are not added to the end of the year -- the state sees to that.
It is Memorial Day weekend, a time to remember those who have passed away and become one with the earth (which we will all enrich someday with our used up bodies). I will be in my garden.
