Spring in January

Spring is in the air, at least momentarily. It's been downright luscious outside and everyone's looking a little younger, a little sleeker, a little more mischievous.

I took this picture of elderberry flowers last year and, as you might guess, more than tinkered with the color of the water. I'm generally agin' that sort of thing but I really liked the punch of the white flowers against the blue water and figured -- what the heck.

In honor of the intimations of spring outside, here's a poem by the most excellent Mary Oliver:

Spring

I lift my face to the pale flowers
of the rain. They're soft as linen,
clean as holy water. Meanwhile,
my dog runs off, noses down packed leaves
into damp, mysterious tunnels.
He says the smells are rising now
stiff and lively, he says the beasts
are waking up now full of oil,
sleep sweat, tag-ends of dreams. The rain
rubs its shining hands all over me.
My dog returns and barks fiercely, he says
each secret body is the richest advisor,
deep in the black earth such fuming
nuggets of joy!

Today's front yard critter count:
Raccoons: 0
Deer: 0