Sleeping alone, like a nesting bird that has got its timing wrong. The spring is stirring our soup, shooting needles of crazy juice in our plants till they cannot retain the sleepy warmth of their winter beds. Who can uncurl first and fastest, a race to the top, Fast and Furious again. Feet in the sock, coffee in the sun, stone wall picking a fight with the weeds, small face in a hole in the wall, the Redstarts start getting all interested. Picking it up and putting it down, testing our strength, spreading our shoulders and wings like the cormorant in the naked tree. Should we clean it, give it another coat of paint or layer soft twigs around a hole of the great tree, with pairs of black beaks taking the air, occupation is a fraction of the law.
Now we are new, I shall become a different me. The plants, animals and I line up at the starting blocks, we limber up and down. The mysterious white coat holds the big barrelled start gun aloft. False starts are allowed, everyone whizzes off, leaving the rule takers disgruntled, the spring flowers are in the lead, juggling the baton! The trees are way behind but look at the length of their strides!
Many animals are trying to race, procreate and eat each other at the same time. The starting coat finally fires the gun and disqualifies anyone who strays out of their lane. Down the straight and narrow it is mayhem out there. Vines are curling as we speak and the winter pruning doesn’t seem to have curbed their appeal. Some of the smaller birds have settled on a nest in the outside lane and now everyone must leap over in mid stride to avoid incident!
The marathon runners are migrating north across the step as the snow retreats. Moving in scattered groups, overtaken by wobbling cyclists in multilingual jerseys.
The Olympian swimming pool is so full of mutating bodies that its hard to hear the crowd, which roars its appreciation as the bells chime to indicate that the last lap has begun. Of course, the last lap is eternal, so nobody takes much notice. Red fruits are eaten with custard in tents, other soft ones are pulverized on the pavement by the surging crowds, who never look at their feet.
Meanwhile the climbing plants have conquered the overhang and are making for the exits, hands white with white stuff. But the weightlifters have dropped the ball and stomped off to find a widder leather belt, also in clouds of white powder.
The earth is softer, and everything knows it, from the smallest beetle to the biggest beetle. Let the scurrying commence. Deep under the hill, water, stored for generations, nourishes the root tips, which have begun their annual quest for of supremacy. Burying your hands beneath the mounting mosses, one might sense the pulse of the rhythmic gymnastics, head over heels with the whine of the air conditioning. Other gymnasts, squirrels, pine martens and the occasional capuchino are practising their summer saults in anticipation of action, while the spring invaders are getting drunk at the high bar. There is talk of moving on to the parallel bars as the evening progresses.
The Guardians of the Cave 