Last summer’s drought seems like a faded memory long vanished away in the bank of seasons’ past. But a walk through my gardens today was a small spark of memory as I saw a few spring blooms heralding the new season like a beacon of hope. The ground moist from rain two days ago, a far cry from the hard ground of August and September. I worried about you, little plants. Spring is a short season and I want them to have just as much glory as the long lazy days of summer. But spring blooms have a tough go. They must endure the tease of warm air that just as soon backfires with a chilly night. I believe that is part of their charm… They march on even in less than perfect conditions. And they do it with ease.

A bitter January is months behind us now. But Spring is slow to start this year. My golden ragwort is half as tall now as it was this time in 2024. The spring peepers are on and off again, cautious yet optimistic. How do they know? They march on.

The tree swallows should be arriving any moment now, and I seriously can’t wait. It is pure bliss when they arrive. Pure absolute bliss for me. Were it not for them in fact, I probably wouldn’t have started this blog in the first place.

I recently flew home on the eastern seaboard of the USA, and as I watched the clouds float by the wing of the plane, I found myself staring at the winglets. My thoughts swirled like vortices with the fascination of migration. How do those tree swallows do it? And do they really have such site fidelity? I travel back to the same location in Florida and return home. Perhaps we are not so different. I can hope that my yard is their repeat destination too. This bird means so much to me, can you tell?