On the first day that the daylight outweighs the night this season, I found it strangely fitting to notice the first signs of decay: plum blossoms wilted, almond petals littering the pathways, branches being hauled off to chip and compost. That first, fleeting flush of life and reproduction has already passed, leaving us atop a gigantic wave that will swell and break in the months to come. This time of year is my favorite, in part because it's easy to appreciate each fragrant herald of the wave to come. Further on the season, it all gets jumbled and mixed in my senses, and I lose sight of the milestones to instead focus on the dance of all things. Not that this isn't a dance, too-- it's just a series of solos.
Today the air smelled strongly of poplar, from the warehouse in west Eugene to the farm in Springfield to the south hills. The ornamental cherries have been dethroned and their bright pink flowers are fading into deep red leaves. There's still so much to come, but I mourn the passing of these early days of spring.