We threw our windows open three days ago. At long last.
Sun pours into the kitchen window and spreads yellow rectangles of light on the shiny oak floor under the dining table. A crow’s caw tears the empty morning. The whine of a prop plane’s propeller builds and then fades overhead. Chirrups of songbirds trill in the silence after it passes.
The trees are still. There is no wind. The air is heavy with humidity, but cool on my arms as it drifts inside.
A robin bobs on the driveway, then on the grass. It pulls worms from the earth. A bunny eats dandelions in the the neighbor’s yard.
The dogwoods next door are green now — the white flowers have all fallen — and the slant of light from the newly risen sun sends their shadows across the full width of our yard. Dew sparkles on the grass, and the yellow morning light makes the lemony yarrow and the blazing orange blanket flowers look like summer. Indigo salvia and Walker’s Low catmint send up spikes of purple flowers that are freshest this time of year; the leaves on the plants are unmarred, and none of the blossoms have browned or faded. The lilac finally flowered as well; its blossoms have just begun to open.
The air is fragrant with honeysuckle and an almond scent from a tree that blooms in white frilly fingers. I don’t know the tree’s name, only its scent. I see buds on the butterfly bush, and the ornamental onion has fat tips as well. Brown-eyed Susans, the grasses, and the trees have all leafed out now. The world is a bright fresh green.
Last week I wore sweaters, long pants, and socks. The past three days I wore short sleeves, skirts, and bare feet. The foreseeable forecast is highs in the 80s and lows in the 50s and 60s. We can keep our windows open night and day to let the fresh spring air and birdsong in.
Butterfly Mind 