Spring is definitely here.
Our sheep are over their irritation with me for stealing their wool coats yesterday (actually, they seem to rather enjoy having the extra fluff gone and have been playing and running around like lambs).
Babies are everywhere, including underfoot when we take them for walks. (You’ll have to go to our facebook page to watch the video though www.facebook.com/littlebrownfarm)
I’ve been able to do chores in 2 layers instead of bundled in the usual 4.
Colors, other than the usual dark greens and drab greys, are creeping, sometimes exploding onto the palate of our neighborhoods.
On our farm we have a few bold yellow daffodils blooming, down the street some bright pink plum trees with flattering maroon leaves.
In Coupeville today there were fields assaulting my eyes with the bright chartreuse of new growth on what was recently nothing but black, fertile patches of optimism.
The alders have carried a hue of melancholy rose as they pull themselves from their deep winter sleep. The grasses shout memories of St. Paddy’s day to my eyes. The winding vines of the berries offer fuchsia blooms in promise of the fruit they’ll trade for their thorny tenacity.
But today, I was nearly breathless by the golden delight that I saw in our yard. It wasn’t the brash yellow trumpet of the daffodil or the subtle tones of the alder trees. It was the new growth and glowing bark of our weeping willow. The one the deer completely girdled while rubbing their velvet in the fall. We were certain it was dead.