fleeting

 

 

 

 

We have spring here, but it has been painfully slow to arrive.  At last, many of the song
birds are back, and the flowers, called ephemerals:  Spring Beauty (small pink clusters),
Dutchmen's Breeches, or Gentlemen's Pants, as my kids called them,  look like little white silk bloomers hanging along a fragile stem.

Blood Root, the stem bleeds on your hand when you pick it, Wild Ginger,  Trout Lilies, and others. Delicate, they soon disappear. I have seen no violets, yet.

This slow spring has been good weaving weather, no snow shoveling, no grass mowing. My paper

weaves are inspired by the suspended blossoms of wild cherry in the mostly gray trunked and leafless

understory of the hillside woods. There is moss, many shades of beautiful green, fresh moss. The scent is wonderful and earthy. 

 The wild hen-turkey has made her nest behind my store, on the other side of the creek. She has feathering the color and pattern of twigs, dead leaves, shadow, and earth. It's almost impossible to see her on her nest, even if you look directly at her. Her neck is so slender, it seems it would snap if she turns her head too quickly. Otherwise, she is big, like a goose. She sits motionless, undetected until  she rises to eat sunflower seeds at the birdfeeder.