April the cruelest month! No way Mr. Eliot. Not this year.
Elm trees are swarming with white blossoms. Armies of forget-me-knots are thick with green and sending out a few reconnaissance blue flowers. Daffodils are swaying like mad yellow dogs. The forsythia is like liquid gold drizzled along the fields and roads.
Only this morning a platoon of wild turkeys skulked through the back garden, the Jake leading a harem of Jennies, the male’s feathers like an Indian’s headdress. And they want to breed, but not out of a dead earth. Their earth is powered by the dynamo of the green fuse, lighting the garden with green filaments of grass.
At night there are the peepers with their amphibian broadcasts from the small pond outside my window.
And when the moths clamber at the windows with anxious wings, I can’t help but feel the same small excitement as the insects as I finish a sentence in my novel.
It’s the small acts that surprise us the most.
“The way I look at it is this: the rich man is not he who has plenty of money, but he who has the means to live now in the luxurious surroundings given us by early spring.” Chekhov