First Day of Spring

It was the first day of Spring in Highlands, and it felt like it; temperatures began just a degree or two below freezing, rose to the 50s by noon, and was up to 70 degrees in Clayton where we ended up this afternoon after an errand in Franklin.  It was a good day for New Beginnings.  And I am a little superstitious about New Years and New Seasons; it marks the opportunity to begin a new project, to prepare for a new journey, to sum up what has come before and look ahead with anticipation toward what lies out on the horizon.

So I ran up Big Bearpen, for the first time since January 2 (I actually had to look that date up just now).  It was a great way to start off a New Season, climbing higher and higher, the morning sunshine warming me as I climbed, step by step.  That old bluegrass song went through my mind.

I'll be waiting on the hillside on the day when you will call

On the sunny side of the mountain where the rippling waters fall.

And it was the same as I had remembered up on the summit, bright clear vistas stretching out on the south toward South Carolina, the bright unmistakable profile of Whiteside Mountain on the east.  It is always a little humbling to stand and gaze out at these distances, legs trembling a little, breath coming back slowly.  A beautiful morning!  And good to be home again.

But I sure felt it when I ran back down-mountain, easing carefully around the curves with knees unaccustomed to that kind of running.  I have been running on relatively flat roads for 10 weeks or so.  When I got out of the car at the Post Office I realized that my legs were a little rubbery.  It will take a little time to adjust to this altitude again.  But today there seems to be plenty of time.

I wrote this Spring poem 37 years ago for Martha, and today I was reminded of it again.

Now the crocus-ruckus has begun,
The branch is empurpled with sap;
From stony bulbs of tulip and daffodil
Slender green stems break

Out of their cold ruts.  The bud is sticky,
The stem shines.  There is dew
Instead of frost.  Instead of ice
Water wells up in the ground

And careers in orange torrents
In the roaring creek.  The wind
Is an eternity of air shifting,
A wall advancing, a new

Weather, a different key.  Love,
Cast away the details of last year,
The hollow, bone-white weeds,
The old bark and leaves,

And let the season sweep you
Up in ruckus.  This daffodil,
This trumpet voluntary:
Listen - it is for you!

After dinner, we noticed that a peculiar kind of light was tapping softly at the windows; we went out on the deck and sat in our rocking chairs and watched the first day of Spring come to a dramatic end.