A song of spring

...and baby leaves

This morning I woke to the soprano trill of a Louisiana waterthrush, just outside my bedroom. Such sweet music! Such exuberance!

In the distance a pileated woodpecker was drilling for his breakfast—a percussive tap-tap-tap—somewhere high on the mountain’s greening shoulder.

Every day starts this way now: A song of the season flooding through my open window, borne on soft air and buttery sunlight.

I feel like singing, myself, as Spring unfurls her cape of many colors:

• the cotton ball daubs of dogwood

• the shy periwinkle of redbud

• the electric yellow of forsythia and sweetshrub

• the vanilla sparkles of serviceberry

Flowers are the belles of this ball, no doubt. Debutantes in their bright gowns. They get a lot of attention.

I’m looking at leaves

What has been wowing me this spring, though, is something less showy than blooming trees and flowers … but every bit as miraculous.

It’s the trillions of tiny leaves birthing themselves in such endearing ways: poking their heads above the leaf litter, reaching for sun, unzipping their green jackets and twirling them in the breeze.

This time of re-leafing, the season of baby leaves, is very brief, maybe just a day or two or three. And here where I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains, that season is right now.

I walk the woods, stopping again and again to exclaim and touch and explore. It’s a worship service, and I’ve plopped myself right here in the front pew.

Rising on tiptoes, I reach into the branches of a beech tree. I squat near a colony of mayapples that sprang up overnight. I stretch full body on the ground to get as close as I can to two fuzzy fiddleheads no bigger than my pinkie.

Everywhere I turn: miniscule green miracles. All these babies, being born. We are smack dab in the middle of a grand rebirth. Hope springing right up out of the ground.

“Spring drew on … and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that hope traversed them at night and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.” — Charlotte Brontë

Any more words are unnecessary, I think. Better just to share it all with you.

So breathe deep, my friends, and wander with me through the forest in springtime. I can promise you one marvel after another.

I guess you can’t tell from this close-up, below, but these baby leaves of sweetgum (Liquidambar styraciflua) are about the size of your thumbnail. So shiny new, so perfect.

One day I found this cute mini-umbrella of mayapple (Podophyllum peltatum) just beginning to unfurl … and then ….

Twenty-four hours later … the rest of the clan had arrived, umbrellas wide open, a carpet of green quivering in the breeze. That was fast!

Our woods seem to be the perfect habitat for this particular trillium (Trillium discolor), which grows only in a narrow range of the upper drainage of the Savannah River. They’re pretty much the first sign of spring here. I’m now passing a zillion of them on my walk every day. That flower, you can guess, will be a creamy yellow.

The beeches (Fagus grandiflora) finally gave up their papery copper leaves from last year, and immediately birthed these new ones.

I almost walked right by these little spears of stiff clubmoss (Lycopodium annotinum), sprouting merrily at the base of a hemlock.

This is a new arrival in our woods, much to my delight—its first spring with us. Until that mysterious bud opens, I can’t be sure what variety it is. Hoping for Trillium grandiflorum, the “Great White.”

Halberd-leaved violet (Viola hastata) is instantly recognizable for its teensy green spears. The familiar lemony bloom is yet to open.

Okay, I know, the focus in this post is leaves, not flowers … but I couldn’t resist including this. Our mountain laurel (Kalmia latifolia) is already sporting bloom buds in the centers of its leaf rosettes. I can’t wait for those petite white flower clusters, a highlight of later spring.

I have to sneak this one in, too: star chickweed (Stellaria pubera). Isn’t it precious? Soooo tiny, you’d overlook it if it weren’t for those cheerful blooms, their white popping out of a green-and-brown background.

And here, my friends, is one last jewel for you.

As I wandered our woods taking all these photos, I paused by the creek to make a short video. I wanted you to feel—see and hear—the abundance of a woodland spring.

While I crouched next to the water, there … suddenly … was the Louisiana waterthrush again, somewhere high overhead.

This time, he’s singing for you. A song of spring.