The Sound of Spring

I really appreciate the winsomeness of spring. This beautiful woman once said to me that spring makes you realize that you’ve been depressed for the past five months and you never even knew it. I think I’ll remember that forever. When I walk I enjoy the colors, the downy whites, the playful pinks. It brings a unique kind of joy to my heart. But I don’t always appreciate the sound of spring. It wasn’t until one late night when the sun had stepped below the mountains and the earth was dark that I recognized this charming aspect of the season’s revelry.

I was walking back from the library at about two o’clock in the morning, when I heard a pecululiar noise. I looked around embarassingly bewildered for a moment. I’d sensed a certain rustling, but disimilar from the kind of rustling from the movement of an autonomous critter. It ended in peaceful magnificence. Like the demise of the cacophony from a rain stick. Soon I grasped that the utterance which struck my ears originated from nothing more than the vibration of leaves in the wind. I saw two trees standing alone, as if married by the authority of nature itself. Each had recently sprouted thousands of small green sapplings ready to spread wide and collect the rays of the lifegiving sun, so that throughout the summertime their master could grow taller, spread wider, and add another ring around it’s trunk to record the long narrative of its life. It struck me that it had been many months since I had sensed such a specific enunciation of nature.

It’s strange. In the summer and spring, I hear this every day, and think nothing of it. It is my prayer that I would appreciate that moment, cherishing it forever, and that I would not allow familiarity to let life, and the valuable things in it, become a fading locality in my memory.