Spring is upon us. The yellow cinquefoil that love the cooler damplands are in evidence. They rise first in the fertile mire, are sometimes submerged in clear pools. The common cinquefoil are ephemeral. Today they laugh, tomorrow they will be overcome by stronger, ranker weed, loutish vegetation that nods languidly in the heat of summer. Other small bursts of color make the resurgent forest glad: anemone, fluxweed, and dandelion, sudden and cheerful. The dandelions are grinning everywhere.

The birds are calling. In the ravines you hear loud elaborate antiphonal whistles. They end with the elusive suggestion of a return, of an almost-echo. The Wissahickon has been stocked with trout, and in the early April days of rain skilled fishermen retrieved the greater ones: long, shinning bodies tumbled in nets. The waterway shines and splashes, braids light and foams. The rocks shoring up hillsides drip constantly, vivid moss flourishes on stone and wood. Above, a haze of green blurs the bare winter twigs. No more of the stark aesthetic of winter.


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