When morning came the vernal dew
still clung to swelling leaf and vine,
now growing now sowing countless
endless time. Bitter work’s verdant hue
transgressing, limitless.
Arrives the thrush midday
field faring, fragrance carrying
like sweetfern on its back. Liquid
strain sings Chronic time, “What’s done
can be undone.”
When evening came the moon was new
actinic splendor fructify,
now warming now forming plaintive
perfect time. Sweet labor’s sylvan hue
innocent, creative.
Spring into Summer
The day was slightly cooler than I would expect for this time of year and the dew was heavier than it had been the weeks before. But a spring morning it certainly was, still expectant and eager.
I have always been fascinated by that seemingly imperceptible moment when the season changes. The older I get the more I pay attention to the seasons and their changes. The more attentive I am to them the more I realize that the associations I made in my youth don’t always line up with what I now observe. Trying to find when the seasons shift is, perhaps, foolish. There is obviously no distinct boundary and despite the dates on the calendar, each season blends into and emerges out of the other. Trying to find how the seasons change might turn out to be a more fruitful endeavor.
Though this particular day seemed an ordinary spring day there was nevertheless a moment that made me wonder whether it’s possible after all to know when to mark the beginning of a new season, to celebrate a particular event or occasion that announces to all that the time for spring has come to an end and the time for summer has begun.
Late morning brought a sudden and intense rain shower. The sort that seems to come out of the blue and returns to blue skies just as unexpectedly. That is to say, this seemed a summer shower, not a spring shower. It wasn’t immediately obvious in the moment that’s what it was, but by midday it became clearer.
I went walking on a familiar path through the woods soon after the rain stopped. It was still cloudy but there was a warm breeze now, heavy with the fragrance of summer—which for me usually means the smell of grasses and hays warmed in the heat of the intense July and August sun. This olfactory experience, whereby one season’s scents irrupt into another is most memorable (for me) in late August, when the smell of decaying plant matter begins to mingle with the smell of dried herbs, grass, and hay.
I heard a wood thrush in the distance, coming from deep within the forest. Hearing the season’s first wood thrush is always exciting and something I look forward to. The thrush is a harbinger of liminality, arriving somewhere between spring and summer but in a time that belongs to neither. It seems to be a guardian of the threshold between the time of leaves and root and the time of flowers and fruit. Its song is simultaneously haunting and enchanting, which is exactly how I would expect that moment when one season transforms into the next to be.
As I continued walking I realized the leaves on the trees looked different to my eyes. In the morning, before the rain and before the wood thrush sang, they still seemed to be waiting for something, not yet fully unfurled. By midday, however, they were qualitatively different: fuller, greener, and offering more shade than the previous day—more shade than that morning even. This was a summer forest now, the time for flowers to ripen into fruits.
Why the Thrush Sings
It is Moon who first marks the beginning of spring: she awakens the trees and plants with her gentle radiance and tells them it is time for growing new shoots and buds. Moon gathers sunlight until overflowing and pours it out onto the Great Forest during the long, cold nights when Sun is sleeping. But now Moon is weary and needs rest after her winter labor.
She decides she will take the remainder of spring to rest now that Sun is awake. The plants grew fiercely under the influence of Sun, putting forth new buds and shoots, growing more and more leaves, and spreading their roots deep and wide.
When the animals woke from their winter hibernation they were hungry and began to feast on the Sun’s bounty. Tender leaves and shoots were just what the animals needed after a long sleep. But as the days grew hotter and longer, and the plants grew tougher and more bitter, the animals couldn’t sustain themselves on leaves and vines alone and their bellies began to hurt.
The plants and animals didn’t know it, but without Moon to do her shadow work the plants wouldn’t know when it was time to make flowers and fruit. Sun helps the plants to spread their roots and leaf out, but Moon tells them when it is time for flowers and fruits.
In late spring Thrush was the last bird to come back to the Great Forest. The other animals tell her about what was happening, how the plants are growing and growing and soon there won’t be enough food to get them through the summer and into autumn. They ask Thrush to help them, to wake up Moon from her long rest and plead with her to tell the plants to stop growing.
She decides she will sing to try and wake up Moon. Thrush flies to the center of the Great Forest and perches high in an old beech tree. The other animals went silent in nervous anticipation. Thrush begins her liquid and silvery song, each new strain harmonizing with the echoes of the last, until the whole forest reverberates with her melodies.
Suddenly, gray clouds gather in the sky above. The other animals hide in their nests and dens, but Thrush keeps singing.
Next, the sky opens up bringing one final spring rain to the Great Forest. Thrush sings even louder to be heard over the thunderous waters.
At last, a great wind rushes through the forest and pushes the clouds away. As the winds calm the other animals slowly come out of their hiding places. Thrush rests her voice and waits.
Slowly, as Sun begins to shine once more, the sweet fragrance of flowers fills the forest. As the animals look around they can see the forest floor is now covered in fresh blooms and blossoms. There are even some small green fruits on the wild strawberry. The scent is so strong and is carried so far that even Moon can smell.
Having been awakened by the scent of new flowers and fruits, Moon realizes she had been asleep for too long. She thanks Thrush for helping the animals and plants and from then on entrusts her with the task of announcing the passage of spring into summer. Now, when Thrush arrives in late spring and her song echoes throughout the forest, the plants (and animals) will know the time for leaf and root is over and the time for flower and fruit is beginning.