I think Leah and I are fairly observant people, at least when it comes to the place where we live. Our senses are attuned to the sights, sounds, and smells of the four seasons. These days our eyes see new bloom beginning to show itself on trees; our ears are fairly assaulted by the volume of songs we hear from birds and spring peeper frogs in full-throated voice; and my nose, at least, is aware that spring is here because cedar pollen is in the air.
Still, we agreed the other day that there are things about spring that surprise us, things we’d forgotten. Maybe we’ve spent too much time indoors during the dark, winter season. Maybe our powers of observation have been dulled by the months we've vegged near the wood stove, our noses buried in books.
Today we were bowled-over, thrown for a loop, entertained beyond belief by light. After an all-night rain that raised the water level of our pond by several inches (and probably made the spring peepers happy,) the sky cleared a bit this morning, the sun hit the raindrops that were clinging to tree branches, and all visual hell broke loose. It made our eyes hurt, the way the light laser-beamed around our back yard; it seemed that all the trees were filled with thousands of tiny, wet magnifying glasses, each reflecting light this way and that.
Oh my, it was an amazing sight!
We could see--and we had a deep, gut-level understanding--why the birds and frogs are so off-their-rockers and giddy, why they’re so bonkers and high on the potent drug that is spring.
