Spring is the time of year when we venture out into the air, to lay claim to the season, capturing moments with our camera, to imprint on our memories.
I loved this quote so much that I decided to make my own version with a shot I took recently. It’s a interesting reminder that moments can be as tangible as physical things in our lives.
The beginning of spring
Brilliant sharp sunshine hides undertones of green, reflecting brown, hoping for sun. The color spectrum opposite the soft golden hazy tones of Autumn, it pierces the senses, sparkles the eyes. Drink it in, a fresh glass of green.
Deep blue is the color nature has painted the virtual ceiling of her outdoor rooms walled in bare trees, mountains, sunsets.
White fluffy mounds of cumulous clouds dot the sky like discarded armfuls of tulle at a bridal store. Water sparkles hang elegantly on still bare branches, jewellery courtesy of spring.
Tweets over twigs
Still silence layered with the vociferous call of the birds, the noises of spring waking are simultaneously a sensory overload, and a balm for the soul. Don’t cover your ears, it’s only for a moment, and then gone, flitting past our future, hiding in summer.
Branches bare their souls
The darkness of branches solemnly line the back roads, white bark fresh from a winters cleansing.
Promises held in tiny green buds, shyly peeking out and waiting for their cue, like little ballerinas fidgeting in the wings.
Wet feet of bushes soaking in ditches, giving off a scent of earthy, funky, stagnant air. Green moss growing northward, while clear puddles reflect ceilings of blue.
Giant ghosts in the sky
The soft sweep of a raven’s wings, nothing more then a whisper of silk drawn over skin, your ears strain to hear as it goes by. It’s a sound only caught when you are still, soft, subtle air over feathers.
Movement overhead brings eyes sharply to the sky, only to blink at the brightness. Shadows of a dark bird criss cross hearts and make them sing.
Discarded feathers, gathered, a costume no longer needed by the occupants. Finished, they have done their work, given flight, and warmth. Plucked to line a nest precariously perched on a branch, fluttered down from a high tree, barely missed, shedded without concern, each one a treasure.
Curating in moments, following natures design.
Gathering together one last time for the night, flooding the darkening garden masses of quail visit as the lights come on inside the window, darting shadows flickering beyond the curtains edging the glass. Pecking, scratching, turning leaves, picking, clucking, chasing. Sudden movements that would delight the cat should he not be snoring on a lap. The minutes move forward, the sky darkens while fur, and feathers retire for the night, satiated.
A brilliantly hued pheasant patrols his territory in the gathering dusk with a trilling drawn out scream of anger that would fit into any horror movie. Smitten with his image in the shiny bumpers of vehicles he preens and fluffs, showing off for no one but his reflection. He keeps one eye on his dour mud colored sister wives who conveniently ignore his parading, while continuing to gobble a late night snack before slipping away, claiming headaches.
In the daylight, shovels of turned soil in the garden point out rocks that shine like gold for the briefest of seconds, in dark moist holes soon to be home to a new plants. Tender green shoots pour out of mixture only days before barren, hiding ice. Springing up in places forgotten, shifting large mounds of dirt, spears pushing towards the light signify plants that made it through the winter’s cold.
Waning sunbeams pursued with the lens, glide through the greening grass, skims down the ragged bark of the fir tree. A sparkle of light through dark branches shows the sun falling into the mountains. Days done, moments caught, collection filled.