I am glad to live in a climate zone where you have four distinct seasons.
Leaves exploding into vibrant colours in autumn and mushrooms popping up in the woods, foggy November days of grave solemnness.
The summer months like a leap high into the air, endless bright days and easy nights at the campfire under a glorious starry sky, crickets chirping, bumblebees humming.
Crisp silence on a chilly winter morning, howling gales and a cup of hot grog, the smell of cinnamon, waiting for the first snow.
And right now – here in the northern hemisphere – spring. With nature waking up to new life, hesitantly at first, then with a sudden frenzy. Beams of friendly sunlight and showers of gentle rain. The smell of fresh earth. A million birds singing and their migratory fellows returning from their winter quarters, covering the sky with their triumphant wedges and their triumphant cries. The promise of beginning and new life everywhere.
I would not miss any of the four seasons.
A lot of people around me, though, seem to think differently (and their number seems to grow every year). With the first warm day in March, they raise the cry “Summer! Finally summer!” and get their shorts and t-shirts and sunglasses out. And at 10°C in the morning, they pretend it’s summertime, desperately wanting to skip spring.
I stand still in the street for a moment to look up and watch a flight of geese returning from the south and listen to their greetings. And as the people around me rush by I wonder if they are the fools – or if I am.
(On the left: scribble for the Kopozky episode Spring Fever.)
Published on 31 March 2017Heyoka