The slopes of these early May hills are a sponge painted masterpiece of bright pinks, pale yellows, light greens and the soft grays of yet unbudded oak trees.
The forest floor is still quite open to the blue-skied bright sun, which is shaded only by a skeletal crochet of hardwoods and tamaracks. The rays greenhouse the floral growth beneath the duff of last year's leaf fall encouraging them to show themselves to the bright light of the New Year.
Overnight the edges of woodlands and the
banks of byways are exuberant with sparkling white waters that splash down through
numerous little runoffs.
Their music is the song of the season's rain showers which washes the Earth, inside and out, so that new growth can happen with unbridled and irrepressible enthusiasm.
Scattered little clumps of green have just emerged out of the cool, wet earth. They are the leafy forerunners of what well grow steadily and surely into creeping buttercups, ox-eyed daisies, golden ragwort and wild geranium. The most abundant of these is the watercress that grows with profuse abandon in the innumerable channels of water that flows freely through meadows and fields.
An avian chorus peels out of the background music consisting of chickadees, song sparrows and robins. Blue jays are the brashy, raspy section and the stellar soloist is the rich red cardinal whose outstanding songs ring clean and clear.
Trees drip with innumerable drops suspended on the underside of limb and stem. They weep a sniffling farewell to Winter and sing tears of joy for another Spring.
By the time the leaf shade of Summer appears to air-condition the forest floor, the treasure chest of sparkling floral gems gives way to the filigree lacy green of hay-scented fern.
All in all it is a green and yellow time in Appalachian Mountain Country. The feeling is enough to make one want to dance with joy of new birth. And its music is the tinkling, clean and clear songs of the mobile flower garden of songbirds and the uncountable spring peepers that periodically emerge out of the wetlands.
Altogether the twinkle is like a universe of stars while an occasional dove coos to serenade our ears with the universal music of tender love.
Copyright © 1988-2000 Barbara A. Smith and John G. Hipps. All rights reserved.
This essay was first published May 10, 1989 in the Free-Press Courier, Westfield, Pennsylvania.