No one taught the sun to rise as bright and clear as it did this morning, in a sky not quite sweet-smelling, but rich and deep, as though the earth had been tilled and made ready for hands to be thrust deeply into it. No one taught the last patch of snow to hold on as long as it has, receding bit by bit each afternoon, the ice revealing the pebbles and once-leaves and children's toys like secrets it has clutched tightly since November when the snow decided to stay. Under today's warm, cloudless sky, it finally relented and retreated, the remaining bits, clutching the grass like discarded chunks of paper, finally seeping into the earth as silently and gracefully as last night's shadows.
No one taught the nimble ends of the branches to redden and swell and then burst suddenly but quietly into tufts of delicious, vibrant green, the likes of which only appear in the newness of the season, soft and moist and curled up on themselves like the silky wings of newly-hatched butterflies. Theirs is the color of winter dreams, forgotten but hoped for more than remembered, like a word sticking unspoken and stubborn to the end of your tongue, refusing to be uttered.
No one taught the reedy willows to puff and pop open and dazzle the world with the sparkle of their long winter slumber. They are delicate and tiny, smaller than my smallest fingernail, but catch the sun like shattered glass and reflect it back, dazzling the little brown birds hoping along the fence line, dancing back and forth and waiting for them to enbiggen and weigh down the erupting tendrils swaying above the enlivening green of the new grass.
No one taught the myriad little birds their songs or the magnificent sound the make as they burst all at once from the cover of a low shrub after you pass, the churning of their wings rising up in sync, a staccato whir that fades as they fan out over and around the path.
No one taught me to turn my face into the sunshine on days like this, to close my eyes and savor the flavor of the morning, as unique and distinct as the prints on my fingers. And no one taught my dog to dance at the joy of uncovering a thick, perfectly-weighted stick, balancing it between his teeth as he prances, head high and proud at his discovery.
No needs teach these things. They are a given, just a few of the miracles of Spring which are waiting to astound if we only open our eyes and open ourselves to their discovery.