I am impatient for leaves on the maple. I resent the forsythia for being the only bright color in the yard. April, the month of almost-there.
But the birds are singing in the stark branches. And it’s warm enough in the sun.
Also, I lied about there only being forsythia. A few dandelions and daffodils stretch up determined and hardy. There’s the creeping phlox and a few grape hyacinth whose purple bells are quickly plucked and shredded by little toddler hands.
The cats are happy explorers in the brambles out back.
We’ve had to keep our Easter butterflies longer than usual because of the cool weather. Today seemed like the right day to release them. One butterfly stayed for a bit, sunning himself. And Isabella spoke to him, a sweet farewell.