We are almost at the end of the green light time, that space in spring when the forest has not reached full canopy, when you can still see a ways into the trees, when the unfolding leaves are so fresh the air in the stretches in between feels soft.
Almost simultaneously, the songs come at you, these the first of the season, one call from high up and 50 or 60 yards off, the wood thrush, three notes bell-clear, rising and then the clicking twitter and the single note following. Now, low and close by in deep brush, I should see him, the brrrring chirps and short so sweet notes of a cat bird who will show himself if only I hold quiet for a while longer.
Waiting, I turn my head just a bit and can see the bright, winter-star white branches of the enormous sycamore I have been watching for 20 years, so purely itself, long and heavy in its gnarled branches and still young. Stand still among big trees now, in this aqueous light, and you might even believe in hope for our careless species.
