No longer open and bare,
the trail is embraced by
salmonberries
sprung up overnight.
The stream banks are sheltered now,
the hillside a riot of shapes
and shades –
green, yellow, brown.
Green, so green.
I hesitate, thinking
I must have gotten on the wrong
trail.
No, there is only one trail –
I have walked it all winter.
Indeed, as I look, I recognize
those stones,
roots, logs, pools –
familiar, but bathed in a new
shade of spring.
A plump robin hops skittishly
from branch to branch ahead of
me,
not quite afraid,
clutching a bit of moss
and a fat spring worm in his
beak.
A dainty Douglas squirrel pauses
its climb up a gnarled root
to cock its head curiously at
me.
Even the stones in the path
glisten
in the light rain, drips
displacing the delicate leaves
of the fringecup and the duck’s
foot plant
like a herd of tiny animals
beneath.
My eyes are wide, moving
from stream to hillside,
ground to sky,
soaking up the new-yet-familiar
beauty
of springtime sounds and
senses.
I can’t suppress the child-like
wonder
and awe and delight I feel, nor
do I want to –
I let the smile play freely
across my face,
shining on everything I see.
Only the trilliums are fading,
their petals crumbling from
stark white
to pink to deep magenta, until
finally
they shrivel and fall to the
ground,
signaling the end of the
beginning of spring.
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