“Oh, grassy glades! oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye, — though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life, — in ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life…”
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale

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Early spring in northern New England: Every day, something new might emerge: frog eggs in the vernal pool; spring ephemerals, as we call these lovely, woodsy, short-lived flowers that come along just when our senses are parched for lack of colour and scent, and disappear without a trace; leafy tree-shaped promises of summer to come; ferns unfurling; snakes basking; newly born insects and butterflies; birds on their way and birds here to stay for a bit; a 70F day followed in minutes by an inch or two of snow.

Just in the last couple of weeks, in the woods and bogs nearby, near the lake, and in the garden:

7 April