Indicators of Spring
I've been watching the world a little more closely lately, looking to see when it's safe to call the season "Spring." Temperature can fluctuate, and has been fluctuating, so it has to be ruled out as an indicator. And everything I used to rely on in Massachusetts no longer applies. For example:
Skunks. Hungry skunks. At the first warm spell of the year, the skunks would be the first out of hibernation, and the smell of skunk preceded the apple blossoms. On a warm February night, you would often find them snuffling along the sidewalk curbs like crazy toupees.
The other signature smell of Spring was, counter-intuitively, a strong scent of Autumn. November's leaves are buried under the snow all winter, or if not, they are at least cold enough on the ground to lock up their perfume. But melting snow and higher temperatures uncovers them, and one day in February your head will reel from the mistaken sense that it is actually October.
But here in California, the leaves don't really fall (see: last haiku) and there is no snow. So I have to go on other things. For example: the mockingbirds returned the day before yesterday, with new songs learned in the jungles of Panama. The coots have returned to Lake Merritt, and the scaups (a type of duck) have blue bills advertising their readiness to mate. The purplish plum blossoms and the yellow locust blossoms are going gangbusters. And everything else, as with all prophecies, is a matter of filling in the blanks. You see Spring omens in one place, and you find yourself anticipating the next omens like moves in a predictable chess game: leeks at the farmer's market, leaves on the tuliptrees, low-cut tops on the tourists. Though Spring happens without fail every year, it still becomes a guessing game and a waiting game, a story you know by heart but still hang on, word for word, to see if it unfolds like you remember. It's a certain knowledge that feels like a vague hope, and we like it that way, because there's not many wishes we can make that we'll always get.
Skunks. Hungry skunks. At the first warm spell of the year, the skunks would be the first out of hibernation, and the smell of skunk preceded the apple blossoms. On a warm February night, you would often find them snuffling along the sidewalk curbs like crazy toupees.
The other signature smell of Spring was, counter-intuitively, a strong scent of Autumn. November's leaves are buried under the snow all winter, or if not, they are at least cold enough on the ground to lock up their perfume. But melting snow and higher temperatures uncovers them, and one day in February your head will reel from the mistaken sense that it is actually October.
But here in California, the leaves don't really fall (see: last haiku) and there is no snow. So I have to go on other things. For example: the mockingbirds returned the day before yesterday, with new songs learned in the jungles of Panama. The coots have returned to Lake Merritt, and the scaups (a type of duck) have blue bills advertising their readiness to mate. The purplish plum blossoms and the yellow locust blossoms are going gangbusters. And everything else, as with all prophecies, is a matter of filling in the blanks. You see Spring omens in one place, and you find yourself anticipating the next omens like moves in a predictable chess game: leeks at the farmer's market, leaves on the tuliptrees, low-cut tops on the tourists. Though Spring happens without fail every year, it still becomes a guessing game and a waiting game, a story you know by heart but still hang on, word for word, to see if it unfolds like you remember. It's a certain knowledge that feels like a vague hope, and we like it that way, because there's not many wishes we can make that we'll always get.