When you know a place, spring is like a reunion. The wild roses are back, the thimbleberries, the lacy vine maple. They are back after the long dark days of winter. We had a record rainfall in Seattle, 45 inches from October to April. Long. Dark. So seeing the pink of the Salmonberry flowers – so bright you can almost hear them calling to the hummingbirds “Come here now!" – the color buzzes through me: a spring riot, the third hour of a really good party third, foreplay... it is the beginning, it is the swell before the fall.
Near the little waterfall there are three very old apple trees in the middle of the wood. They have grown tall and narrow amongst the native maples, so narrow and tall that I didn't see their blossoms all these years, never recognized them as the remnant of some long ago orchard until now, as I stand balanced on a log in the middle of the rushing creek, trying to not to fall over as I look up to see where the drift of white petals is coming from.
These, in May, are as good as snow in December.
Now, now. Now.
I face East and call in the breath, the words, the ideas that my world needs from me now. I face South and call in desire as a fuel. I face West and call in what my feelings know. I face North and say “Let me make this with my body, with my hands.” I balance. I feel center, the mixing place. At this moment a breeze rises and stirs the tops of the apples trees and a a funnel cloud of petals forms around me, white circles spinning in spirals and slow turns before the sea of spring green, rushing around me, rushing below me, as spring’s record rain covers me in now.