253: Barn Bluff (last Sunday)

Since it's not quite time for color just yet in our part of the world (though it's beginning to peep, and there were these little purple and yellow flowers on the prairie side of the bluff, perfectly in tune with the Easter holiday), I allowed myself to become incredibly aware of texture. This is the time of year when we can go outdoors without wanting to turn about and rush back into the warmth, when we can linger on the back patio with the rubber dog toys, chucking them again and again until everything is sopping with slobber, and the warm air feels so, so good, and this is also, I have discovered, the time of year when we can see the things that love to hide otherwise: Amanda was telling me of the ridiculousness of her front yard bunny, hiding in bare branched bushes, and I remarked how how lucky I was to get a few bird shots in our crabapple tree, which I am saving to share here very soon. It's the time of year to be very still and observe because we can see those secret things right now and love the bend and shape, love the way the wind takes us outside ourselves: the fish spine of brittle leaves, the sway of dry grass in spring breeze. So, right now, I'm OK without that inundation of green, the way the lights turn on outdoors, because right now, right here, I can smell the damp rot of last autumn's leaves and see the way in which everything spindles.