Signs of spring are all around. Yesterday I saw the first Bumblebee of the year, a queen Bombus terrestris, foraging to gain strength before establishing a nest. And today, as I sat soaking up the wan sunshine in a hedgerow, hoping to get some photos of hares (nothing notable), I heard a brief snatch of skylark song amongst the see-saw calls of the Great Tits, chirrups of the Long-Tails and treacle song of the Robin. Before long there will be symphonies of birdsong, cascades of daffodils and blossom by the ton.
I know that each year the visceral thrill of spring leaves me astonished anew, but I wonder, will this be the year that the jolt of impermanence comes too sharp on the tail of winter's deep gloom? But maybe that will never be and the scream of the spring will always have its unsullied moment, caught between the expectation of what will be and relief at the passing of what was.
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