It's to the point where you don't want to think too much about how beautiful each day is so as not to jinx it.
Thursday -- the last teaching Thursday of the semester, but no less busy than all the Thursdays of the preceding fourteen weeks. It does not mean, however, that we cannot pause for breakfast.
And that I cannot pause for a photo of the farmhouse. The sunlight, touching the yellow building at an angle from the east, is exquisite.
Ed asks -- are you going to do something with all those pots?
I look at him pityingly: they need to be filled first. Arrangement comes last. Any planter knows that.
In the end, I'm late for my 9:30 class. One whole minute late. I explain to them that I had to pause for a photo. How could I rush out and not take note of nearly flowering daffodil buds?!
Evening. There isn't much time to putz around the yard. We pull a weed here, a strand of quack grass. Isis watches.
Ed shows me new buds. Peonies! I tell him. The thing about having a delayed spring is that when it comes, you notice everything!
Dinner. Last week's vegetables, today's fish.
Late, very late, Ed tells me -- the moon is a great big ball. We go out to look at it -- he, barefoot, me in just a light sweater. It's cold still, but we shrug it off -- the night is beyond beautiful.
It's called (according to the Farmer's Almanac) the Pink Moon. Why? Pink and round like a newborn? Like a spring flower? Yes, that. From the Almanac: pink, like the wild ground phlox, which is one of the earliest widespread flowers of the spring.
We have an owl somewhere at the farmette and tonight we hear her loud and clear. She's there, in that tree. No, that one! Shhh, quiet, she's sniffing out the mice. The rhythmic call continues. Hoot hoooot hoot, hoot hoooot hoot.