It seems Spring is over and we've jumped right into Summer, so much so that our Russian Olive trees have been blooming for the past week, nearly a month before they regularly appear.
I hadn't been paying attention and then one evening, after the sun dropped low and the air cooled, Ken and I took Duncan out for a slow walk down The Run, quiet, transparent clouds of gnats and other hovering motes dancing in the air before our eyes while a lazy breeze drifted across the golf course, the tall grass that grows along the fence line rolling under its touch. Dunc ambled ahead and Ken and I were doing what partners do on slow evening walks, talking about the unimportant things like the shape of the clouds or the falling snow of the cottonwood seedlings, when suddenly it caught me, that familiar buttery mint sweetness of my youth on the foothills of Pocatello. It stopped me dead and I caught Ken's arm and squeezed, startling him.
"There," I exclaimed. "Do you smell it? Close your eyes and smell it."
He did as I asked and nodded. "The Russian Olives?"
I could hardly speak, standing as I was, inhaling the sweet air, feeling the gold veins of the fragrance course through my lungs and into every inch of my body.
"Yes," I said finally, a smile spreading across my face. "The Russian Olives. They're here."
And everything will be good because normally they don't come until the middle and end of June, when I plan on flying east with my family. I'd feared missing them but Nature found a way. I will take a clipping of a branch, wrap those precious yellow blooms in a bag and carry them with me. Flowers for flight.