I woke up on Monday and it was as though every flowering tree in the neighborhood got the memo.
It is spring! A very, very dry, warm spring. I have begun to water the garden, praying for rain.
At the Farmer's Market I bought strawberries (already?) Strawberries as sweet as honey (variety, Monterey).
The ethereal quality of early spring blossoms is so particular. It makes my heart hurt with their beauty. A soft breeze blows them away. White, iridescent blooms on a neighbors plum tree make a beautiful sight from our living room window. A few days- a week and they are dried and done.
This little tree has a certain following. In a few months a large family/tribe of blonde haired children and adult women will come to check on the tree which overhangs the street. They flit about in excitement checking on the ripening small golden plums. It is not their tree, not their yard. I don't know where they live. They are like the seasonal migration of beautiful cedar wax wing birds, descending to ravage a bush and then darting away. But this tribe seems more bold than shy cedar wax wings, confident of their ownership of the oncoming plum bounty.
We who live a short distance away could easily get there first. I guess we are just not enamored with those plums. After 7 or so years, it really feels like "their" tree. And they are clearly so delighted, it's a joy to watch them (sneakily) from the window. The owner is never around when the great harvest takes place. I don't know whether they have an arrangement with him, or is he just relieved not to have to pick up the pulpy, overripe mess they leave. A mystery.
And this year I can only hope that all of them will return.
