Might as well be spring
Three times this week it snowed — a fitful, spiteful snow that wasn’t meant to collect. It’s hard, these April mornings, to look out the window and grey and grey and grey. The ground is too cold for plantings, although desperation drives people out into the yard on the rare sunny day to rake and tidy and gather the millions of branches from storm after storm.
I don’t have much of a yard (pine needles coat it so thickly that grass can’t grow) so my desperation drove me into the woods instead, to find the tiny signs that winter really has ended.
They’re there, if you look hard enough.
New greenbriar growth on the old, dead vines
Cedar sprigs in the copper pools along their roots
Fresh growing river grass amidst the brown old growth in the brook at the salt marsh
Broom Crowberry putting out its new growth early.
A good samaritan put cedar sprigs at the marker to enhance the illustration.
Walking across the narrow path through the salt marsh, bordered by switch grass and (alas) phragamites always makes me feel like I’ve stepped into another world, somehow. It feels like a moment out of time, from the instant you step from the woods on one side till you slip back into them on the other.
The leaf litter looks like it is trapped in a pool of resin, a solid surface.
Every year these are the first sign of spring for me — I THINK they’re young birch (black, at a guess, but maybe yellow).
Unfurling so slowly.
The moss promises spring too with new, soft growth carpeting it.