The neighbor's dogwood tree has reached its state of spring perfection. My window gives me an excellent view of the deep pink blossoms arrayed in graceful clusters which are not so dense as to conceal the tree's intricate network of delicate branches. While afternoon sun shines through the blossoms, they glow brightly. Once the tree falls into the shade of the tall ponderosas to its west, the color darkens and grows more intense. The larger trees beyond the dogwood provide a backdrop of a dozen shades of green which also shift from shade to shade as shafts of sunlight play across them. This is one of the most enjoyable sights spring affords, but it lasts only a few days.
This final day of March has been placid, mild and uneventful. The camellias are almost gone, and the wilting heads of the few still clinging to the bush sag earthward. The caterpillar-like flowers which bear the pollen of the mulberry tree are also now fallen, replaced by the new leaves. The walk is paved in their drying remains and those of the camellias. They no longer have the power to make me sneeze, but I enjoy treading on their corpses nonetheless. They are very soft underfoot.
The acorn woodpeckers appear to have separated into mating pairs. I only ever see them two at a time now. I have no idea where they are nesting, but they often visit the utility pole at the corner of the yard and peck away for a few minutes, occasionally emitting their chuckling call. Still, the day begins and ends with crows. I'm not sure if it's only my imagination, but they seem much shinier this year, their sleek black feathers glistening with morning and evening light. What they get up to at midday, I have no idea. I woke for a while late this morning, and listened to the songs of the other birds for a few minutes, but heard no crows among them. I imagine them lurking in the deep woods at that time, shadows flitting through shadows, like something in a dream I might have had but don't remember.
