Bird houses put up their vacancy signs, reopening for the season. It’s the time of year when Mother Nature’s tiny workers unpack their bundled broomsticks and begin to sweep the cobwebs from the corners of the countryside.
The yellowed landscape is crumpled like old paper that has been draped carelessly across the hills. Behind them royal blue mountains are crowned by bolts of whitewashed denim stretched tightly across the sky. The air is so sweet you want to fill your lungs a little bigger than they go. The ‘good hurt.’
Geese are honking, woodpeckers knocking, and tiny birds are clicking their tongues. Ashen grass pokes up in unsightly tufts like old man’s hair. To be young again. Trees yawn and splay their fingers toward the sun like newborns rousing from afternoon naps: spines bending, snapping, stretching; fluids begin to stir.
The whole scene has a layer of dirty resin over it: simple, lacklustre, like a stone that has long since been polished. Winter’s war has sliced the ground, leaving deep rumpled fissures on the earth’s swollen belly. Still-cool breezes smooth the surface like menthol balm, reminding me that once again my spirit, too, will renew.