poplar road

Bordering the road the wire fencing in the hay fields glimmered as if beaded with water. There is still ice on the puddles and snow beneath the trees. In the afternoon light I noticed something I hadn't before, about the thickets that line the fence and fill a gully between farms. They are truly the thickets of fairytale, a gnarled impenetrable mass of arching boughs and twiggy shrubs, and mostly of an unfamiliar variety of tree: rough grey bark, reddish new growth, and thorns almost as long as sewing needles and surely as sharp. It must bear beautiful flowers to need the protection of those thorns, so I will keep my eye on the thickets as spring approaches, in hopes of a show.

The land climbs more gently on this side of the river, the wooded hills unfenced above the road, open to the meanderings of deer, coyote, and bear. A chill in the air reminded me how quickly night falls this time of year. Spooked just a little, I turned around for home. As I passed the black nets of the ginseng farm the sun hit the rim of the hills behind me, and suddenly everything turned red and gold. There is a shrub in the pine woods that has bark such a bright scarlet you might think it man-made; I am hopeful it is a variety of huckleberry, known for its red bark, though I don't know if it grows this far north.

Almost home, a row of trees at the brow of the hill were lit golden, with the fading blue of the mountains behind. In another thicket jumbled in rock something shuffled through the undergrowth, and three-tiered nests weighed down the branches. A magpie flitted away across the fields as I approached. Although I didn't find the familiar over-zealous signs of spring I'm used to on the coast, the morning cacophony of birdsong, clumps of earth left by busy moles, and tiny buds on all the trees all shout Spring to me. And spring or not, there are other gifts: as I write, an owl glides to a tall pine outside my window. I'll listen for him later, calling for his mate, and hope that cherry blossoms aren't far away.