March snow

pattern hunting around the secret meadow

There’s snow on some of the trunks and branches jumbled together in a heap. The grass under my boots is squelching with mud. It snowed yesterday, a white wall of busy crystals rushing down. This morning, it’s cold, and the edge of the cold wet seeps into my bones. And yet, the aftertaste of the air is mild and balmy. This is a different cold than the harsh, biting cold of winter. It’s the end of March, and I can taste it in the air.

Birds are singing. Too many to count, too many that I don’t know the names of. My dog and I squelch our way across the secret meadow, the one where we are always safe from human interaction. The one we come to when I don’t want to be spoken to.

I’m pattern-hunting. Winter is great for this, with the foliage gone, all the textures are laid bare. I want to collect more for my inspiration list. I touch the tree trunks, and dance my fingertips across the moss - tiny sparkling stars, pinpricks of neon in the deep green. I love the moss. And the skeletons of the ferns, golden-brown, dry, rustling. And the streaks from the planes across the sky, and the branches mirroring their movement.

I have nothing to say, I feel. And yet, probably plenty. But this is a postcard, and all I really want to say is: wish you were here. We could go pattern-hunting together. And share a cup of tea or a nice coffee afterwards, while we watch the birds carrying sticks and dog hair and damp grass to their nests, busy building a safe haven in this March cold.

What patterns are you noticing?

Sending lots of love,

Anna