Sensing Spring

If my eyes did cease to see, would the season of Spring be lost to me?
I would miss the sight of hawks in the air – a single…another…the mate: a pair.
Their red shoulders burning, upwardly yearning, circling-circling-circling…their sky.

I would miss the first pure gem of the flowers: the bloodroot soft white like late snow on the mountains.
It’s velvet petals reaching, it’s round leaf embracing, dancing-dancing-dancing…their song.

I would miss the green: the emeralds, the limes…the color of beech leaves taking
their time – copper buds yielding, soft green emerging, lifting-lifting-lifting…their hands.

But if I had sight, yet ears did leave, which sounds of Spring would I most grieve?
The chorus of wood frogs ridiculously early – how do they survive when ice returns surely, croaking-croaking-croaking…their refrain.

The rush of the stream, swollen with rain, the music of the waterfall roaring forth again, flowing-flowing-flowing…with life.

But perhaps the most: the sweet bird-song: the farewell of the hermit thrush, faltering – not strong…the last white-throated sparrow with its plaintive cry, and the first woodland vireo, begging reply.

And so, I am grateful and raise my hands high, for I have eyes to see and ears to hear by. The forest is glorious and in springtime it glistens – I need but to GO and just look and listen.

– Joy Hopkins, Blackberry Farm Adventure Manager