Sitting in the sun on a bench with Mockingbirds singing up and down the street and all around the neighborhood and Izzy semi-slumbering in the dappled shade, her eyes contagiously sleepy, I keep turning around.
I turn to look down the street at the Chinkapin Oak (Quercus muehlenbergii) that I planted in Mary’s yard last spring. It’s a conservative tree, like the Pecan in Alex’s backyard, neither of them quite convinced that winter is finally done, both holding out for more time, unlike the Monterey Oak (Quercus polymorphs in Carol’s yard that I started from an acorn several years ago and planted just last weekend. That young oak has decided spring has sprung.
And then there are the new Burr Oaks (Quercus macrocarpa) that I collected last fall, the macrocarpal acorns bulging in both my sweater pockets as I came home from a walk. Two weeks ago, those Burr Oaks started pushing up sprouts from the mulch at the top of the milk cartons in which I planted them, and most of them now divided and transplanted into slightly bigger containers of various shapes and sizes. They have a lot of growing to do, those Burr Oaks do, and they are tough trees, so I suppose they figure there is no time to waste, no need to wait.
I turn around to look to Mary’s house, and I think these things.
The Mockingbirds and now singing Wrens and crying Bluejays and Cedar Waxwings squealing in the breeze, the dog, an intrepid butterfly, and the first yellow Texas Star are all convinced that winter is gone. The sun on my cheek makes it feel so. Perhaps the Pecan tree will relent tomorrow.
Tomorrow! I must stop this. Tomorrow I have a test. So I must leave the bench and the birds and the sun and the trees and go back inside to study.