This is our front yard and garden at dusk. All afternoon, the mountains were misty and out of focus.
Only the grass hesitates to fill in its sections of May green on the canvas. Spring peepers echo as the evening deepens.
We can still see a swatch of river.
These early shades of green distract, lure us outside, induce trances.
We study the plum tree’s new leaves, the tall garlic and sprawling raspberries. The first leaves of lettuce have already been served at our table. Sprouts of peas and radish pop out of dark soil.
Lilacs one moon early. I reach into their branches to pull the body of a lavender blossom toward my face and deeply inhale its oils. In New England, they usually bloom for my birthday in later May, not now.
The lilacs survived a violent autumn pruning (and I won’t discuss the details here except that it was carried out with good intentions but we’re grateful to have lilacs at all) followed by the October snow storm that damaged many of our trees.
Notice how the sky is changing. The mist seems to have evaporated into the blue. The camera’s flash works its magic to reverse the loss of light.
And somehow I manage to snap several photos as comets fall around me.
Okay, so it’s not comets.
But when I shine a small light, the air is filled with flying sparks as night falls.
Much of what happens in our yard amazes us. Have I told you about the snapping turtle that decided to give birth in our strawberry patch?
Only moments later, the flash begins to lose its power over night.