Oh, what a glorious sky!
So many words for blue – and yet not one will do it justice.
Here in Northern World, we’re accustomed to wintry gloom and misty, damp spring days. Perhaps the word for this colour eludes me because of what went before? The contrast? Because it’s not a real colour, more a perceived one?
[Stops. Adjusts mental attitude. Sips from cup of tea and gazes from window.]
Quite the wrong approach for this heavenly day.
The air’s abuzz with bees, with chirruping, nest-building, passion-crazed birds.
A butterfly rests on the dew-drenched grass – was it sensible to emerge so soon?
Buds strain to unfurl on the birch trees, their tippy-top branches glowing bronze in the sunshine.
A froth of pale blossoms covers the cherry trees.
And two red squirrels compete for the water dish. Nibble at the peanuts that were there for little birds to enjoy.
A white pen draws a line across the sky, erasing itself as it leaves. Too high to see what kind of aeroplane it is. Have they been on holiday? Are they going to a business meeting, those passengers?
My day should have started long ago. By which I mean my ‘working’ day. I’ve been up since 6 am, but still haven’t showered or dressed for the day or started anything that approximates to tasks of duty not of pleasure.
I ventured into Twitter. But that medium is a fickle companion. It distils the best, the worst, the most painful, the silliest, the angriest the ugliest the most beautiful. Short snatches of everything – and today, thanks to the world outside my window, I’m aware how easy it is to select only the worst.
So here I am. Glancing outside. Typing.
Heart warmed by the day, by the trees, by the squirrels. By the birds, the blossom, the butterfly, the grass – and the promise that is spring.
Yesterday a bird died after hurtling headlong into our window. I found it outside the garage door, flies already crawling.
It was a Black Cap, a bird that is no common visitor to our garden.
In spring the birds seem to fly far faster, be less wary, hit our windows with abandon. Most often they survive. Especially the fat, waddling, far-too-numerous wood pigeons.
But this one died. It saddened me. Its little eye open but empty. Why me? It accused, or so it felt.
‘Who killed cock Robin?’
‘I said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow.’
No, said I.
I, with my kitchen window, I killed little Black Cap.
But this is spring. I hope that Black Cap’s partner will find another mate. That soon, added to the chirruping will be the squeaks of baby Black Cap. A replacement for the little corpse that rots, now, amongst the trees beyond on our fence.
April. The cruellest month?
But not today.