Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day.
So rhymed the poetic selection of a simple little ditty that we were taught to sing in tune way, way back when my elementary school days numbered in the lower grades of one or two, perhaps three.
My thoughts back then disagreed, as I loved to walk in the rain and also during a heavy snowstorm. My thinking has changed somewhat over the years, especially when the temperature hovers as low as it has this past winter. What a drag!
Nevertheless, I still enjoy sitting on the front porch, leaning back in a stationary rocker, with my feet on the railing, listening to the rumble of Mother Nature rolling out the heavy designated barrels of life-sustaining nectar. Meanwhile, I’m watching the flash, flash, flash of her camera snapping landscape pictures of the countryside on which she plans to pitter-patter, or thunderstorm splatter, the main necessity of all life.
This past morning, while I still had trouble getting my sleepy eyes to stay open, the sun shot up over the tree-lined horizon, chasing a couple of shrouds of mist that hung low over our back pasture. This tells me that there must be a couple of snowbanks hidden in the valleys that are a little reluctant to leave. I can see, too, relatively deep snow on the steep hillside acres of leafless hardwood bush that corners our 49.99 acres.
High, high above this, silhouetted against azure sky, assuring me that spring has really come, circling forever on widespread wings that cease to beat, are a half dozen or more turkey vultures that have returned from the sunny south. Their keen eyes have undoubtedly spotted a winter-killed carcass of some large, unfortunate animal, and they are now riding the updraft, waiting patiently for the opportune moment to drop down and scavenge a free lunch.
I can relate to a free lunch, provided they don’t expect me to join them. Yuk! It makes one appreciate that we humans are on the upper end of the food chain.
Closer to home, the daffodils are poking their noses through with their bud tips showing great promise. And while the honeybees, from our hosted bee yard hives, fly around and around in nectar pursuit, I have a strong hunch that it will be a week or two before they will return in uncountable numbers.
While on the subject, let me ask you a question. It was a not forgotten favourite of my Little Lady’s.
It goes exactly like this: Why do bees get mad? You’d get mad, too, if somebody stole your honey and necked her. Don’t let that one slip over your head – there is subtle humour there.
Take care, ’cause we care.
Barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105