Spring arrives

The wildflowers were late in arriving, all that rain, deluge after deluge nearly had us building arks or doing glacial prepping. The trees, too long without adequate water, are cautious, having shed most of their leaves during the long drought, including the coast live oak, and redwood. It’s hard for me to witness the miracle of spring when all the backroads are aligned with dead and dying trees. Still, spring arrives all out of breath, the distant hills are losing their first blush of yellow against green, and the sky lupines seep into the crevices to fill the void. It’s as if small bits of the sky have fallen and landed on the steep hillsides. Of course the poppy gangs are shouting like cheerleaders on their thin rock outcrops, they are unable to compete with the foreign grasses that the cattle dote on. This year, the sun too was slow on the scene and the grass was a pale shadow of itself which kept the cattle working overtime. But now the sun has returned, and they graze contentedly, none of winter's sparsity nipping at their heels. First up are the spring calves snoozing in small hollows, their ears like small sails luffing in the breeze, while red shouldered hawks circle and careen with the vultures, looking for an easy meal. The light is still low on the horizon and you can see in the way it drapes itself over the hills, as if dressing the curves in a shawl of chiaroscuro light.

4/26/23 Write On! prompt Terri Glass