I took a little walk about the garden yesterday, through the mud and past branches strewn like pick up sticks, remnants of other storms.
The Creeping Charlie has already started invading the awakening flower beds, competing with Creeping Jenny, who is welcome here.
Midway, I stopped to clean out the bluebird box of the twigs and feathers last year’s wren family left. A tiny remnant of an egg cracked through. How do these birds do it; weaving sticks and twigs and candy wrappers into a prairie homestead on a post?
Here, a male cardinal flattered, dashing in his red coat. There, two goldfinch fought, mid-air, for first dibs on the thistle feeder.
The white flags of several doe signaled my intrusion as they grazed in the vacant lot next door.
My eyes wandered, looking for the red fox Tom spied crossing our little acreage a few days ago, heading first toward the east, then, soon afterwards, back to the west and our neighbors’ property, a prize in its mouth. We suspect a den nearby.
I scratched some leaves around, looking for new growth on the underbelly of the Cutoff and found tips of hosta poking through the ground. I covered them up for a few days more, then noticed the clematis and roses putting forth tentative shades of green. Nearby, the celandine poppies and brunnera Langstree are happily congregating in the softest of clusters.
There is hope, my friend, in this garden of life – and hope here on the Cutoff. What have you noticed lately in your own walk through life? Did you ever play pick up sticks?