One warm day earlier this week made the cherry trees bloom. East coast news has stories of cherry trees blooming months early in the strange heat, the clueless, bought media breathless and uncomprehending as to why spring should be so early and so warm. That place is a million miles from here, where it has been grey. Here, the trees have stewed in winter’s remnants, gathering themselves. One day was enough for release.
That my window onto spring’s explosion is a software company’s parking lot may be sad to some. I am sure I am not alone. Many of us have nature rationed down to parking lot trees marooned behind castiron grates and concrete planters, or down freeway embankments, drainage impoundments. Here the trees are well-tended by armies of dark-skinned Central Americans, out weekly with their leaf blowers. Each is different but the same size.
Winter clouds persist above, high and distant as if spun off from some distant storm. Spring and winter battle to the south and east, hurling destruction to the Earth below. Here it is only cold and clear, the mare’s tails gathered to greater thickness than in months past. Everything is stirring, moving, changing. The climate is changing–the baseline of change itself is changing. The sky is all revved up, with nowhere to go but down.
To the east thunderheads pile against the Cascades. The air is sharp, colder than I would have guessed for the bright light that makes me sneeze. Energy is high: the light still clean as in winter, the sky pressed close as if the storm is gone, winter exhausted and settled in. We are all tilting in toward the sun, toward the growing energy, and never feel a thing. We moderns would be lost without a calendar when all we need to do is be out in it. We would remember if we were not so far away.
I get in my car and drive away. I have things to do.