With swirling breezes and temperatures in the seventies, today might have been mistaken for spring.
The pear tree shrugged off its cloak of leaves and stood all day, bare-limbed, in a pool of gold and brown.
Robins and warblers perched on sunlit branches, their restless urge to forage temporarily forgotten.
But today’s weather shouldn’t fool any of us, trapped as we are in winter’s web.
An early dusk approaches, wheeling night behind it. Sleep is creeping through the yard, with months to go before waking.
Somehow, in all of the recent rain and wind and clouds, I overlooked the fact that parts of the yard are still blooming.
All of the pollinators are gone, so it feels as if the flowers want only to be admired.
I wonder if the hoverfly thinks about beauty. Are daisies lovely, through its eyes, or simply another field of nectar? If your life’s work is harvesting nectar, does sweetness turn dusty and tired, soured by toil and necessity?
It’s a daisy and maple kind of day.
With a few thorns, of course. No day is complete without thorns.