the sound of springing

tonight after everybody went home we got in the hot tub. after we got out and closed it up, I was standing on the steps looking at the sky and Loopy was smoking on the porch. I heard this quiet noise, leaves rubbing together very gently--I thought, it must be some small animal--frogs already? I went & got the flashlight.

"What are you doing?" said Loopy drowsily. "I want to see who's rustling in the leaves on the patio," I answered. She didn't respond--she's used to me after 12 years.

I went back down to the patio and listened--still rustling, the dry oak leaves quietly moving against each other--so I turned the light on suddenly, trying to catch the unknown animal(s).... nothing.... just heaps and drifts of leaves... and that soft rustling. I looked and looked, shone the light here and there... the rustling wasn't in any one place, it was all around, in every direction; it didn't cease when I walked closer; there was no sudden silence or scurrying to indicate that an animal had detected my approach... there was no wind at all--the trees were motionless overhead, and I couldn't see any leaves moving (usually even in a light breeze, one leaf will flap a bit to explain that the sound is a breeze not an animal). Could it be...? It seemed impossible to think that I was hearing plants growing. But after some investigation, I concluded that there was no other explanation for this sound, all around me. And it didn't seem impossible; the sharp shoots of bulbs will grow right through fallen leaves, puncturing them neatly--there must be some moment when the hole is made, and it must make some sound. On an infinitely tinier scale, it must be like tiny earthquakes--two surfaces press against each other until there's a sudden movement, except instead of one tectonic plate sliding under the other, it's a shoot sliding against a leaf, slowly but inexorably, unstoppably....it was really quite extraordinary.

Then a few days ago I was lucky enough to watch the ice melting on Lake Mendota. The wind was pushing it up onto shore and it was piling up on itself, creaking and breaking in a fascinating tangle. (In case you didn't know, I grew up in Arizona and all this is completely new to me...)

Happy spring--and may you, too, have some moments of wonder and awe, amid all the mud and midterms.