Over the week-end of the 7th of March, my partner and I drove to our local arboretum. All around our neighbourhood blossoms are exploding, daffodils are conquering every bit of spare grass, and magnolias are flowering. So we wanted to see how the arboretum was fairing. They have some magnificent magnolia trees we love to delight in as winter wanes. When we arrived, we found the magnolias still mostly in buds - thick furry cocoons that encased the white leathery petals. Some were poking out, others had already found their way to the light but not many.
A visit to the arboretum is never a wasted visit even if the desired plant is not quite as desired yet. Instead of magnolias, our attention was stolen by the rhododendrons and camellias. I am less familiar with these plants and had forgotten that they too are peppered around the paths and flower outrageously bright this time of year.
We meandered through damp grass, my shoes and socks rapidly sodden and cold, dipped our nose close to every large expanding flower in search of new scents but rarely found any.
Energy low and waning, we settled on a bench to eat our lunch. Above ravens croaked their deep hollow bony song. A couple, binoculars firmly on their eyes, traced their flight paths in search of a nest.
I practiced my knitting lazily, eyes to the green more than to the needles. I drank tea brewing on a bench. I closed my eyes and listened - small chirps of tits, loud honking shouts of early geese, quiet footfalls squelching in the mud, murmured voices and delighted surprises, the ravens, a flap of pigeon wings. I breathed in, alive to the world I had almost forgotten in the long months of winter dark in the land of cars.