All the fruits and trees have blossomed. Marsh marigold and woodland violets cover the ground near the rushing stream. Tadpoles, like sperm, suffuse the now filled tidal pools. Finally this rain has made the lushness of summer come to the woods, the air dark with barometric pressure and sweet.
May Day May Day, though the Hawthorne has not yet bloomed. It is still days from our Beltane ritual, but the heady fecundity of life surrounds every step.
Our May poles are rotted to shortness; we walk the far property, past the waterfall which cuts off all other sound. The new property of untapped potential and mystery is raw like an adventure. There is a log bridging the stream. He picks it up and hefts and balances and carries it over rocks and through branches across the gully to the field.
It will be perfect.
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