Story-A-Day #168: Seasons On Board

SEASONS ON BOARD

I don’t know who put them there, or when they did so. They make for a nice addition though, a seasonal table spread across the slats in the fence.

On the left is winter. A snow-laden evergreen droops beneath the weight of a soft, white sheath of snow. The ground below is shielded, a smear of earthen brown that lets the passing woodland creatures know that there is safe haven to be found in those confines.

The next one over is autumn. A tree in full golden regalia proudly proclaims the glory of the season, the wonderful transitioning of the season. The roots of the tree spread outward, extending the majesty of the mighty golden crown. Entwined in those roots are the ruddy remnants of fallen leaves, the passage of time.

On the right is summer. Bouncy blue blossoms seem to waver in the breeze, white pupils staring out from the centre of each. Golden brown stalks hold the blue heads high, swirling in a smear to the invisible ground beneath.

Three seasons on three boards.

It begs an interesting question. The paradigm has always been four seasons, and yet here, on the weathered slats of wood, there are only three represented. So what happened to spring? Why was that vibrant season of rebirth not represented?

It is a conundrum to be sure, but upon closer inspection the fortuitous truth is revealed. At any other time it would not be true, but on this particular day, with droplets falling gently from the skies above, spring is everywhere.

It is in the muddied yard. It is in the falling rain. Looking up over the fence, beyond those impressionistic representations of the other seasons, it can also be seen in the blooming branches of the overhanging tree.

Those buds will soon erupt in a waving sea of green. They will announce the arrival of the season of growth and portend the coming of summer.

It seems unfair that spring does not have representation on those boards, but it is even more unjust that spring is the only one to be appreciated beyond an impressionistic portrayal on the boards of a fence.

Such is the life of a season, cycling ever onwards towards the next.

Story-A-Day #162: Ducks

DUCKS

What brings them here, these waylaid ducks? It is clearly not their season, and this is clearly not their place. Ducks are meant to migrate, like their human snowbird equivalents. They enjoy this region for two-and-a-half seasons, and spend their remaining days in a more temperate climate.

So why then are they huddled on this driveway, seeking as much radiant heat from the black asphalt as they can muster? This is no lake or secluded pond, no home for a duck. In fact, aside from the slow trickle of melting snow, there is no water whatsoever for them to splash in. There is nowhere for them to seek out sustenance and shelter.

So why then are they here? Are their internal compasses broken, sending them north again, instead of further south? Were they simply confused about the date or season, expecting that they would be able to splash down into a cool body of water and resume their seasonal routine?

What could this strange phenomenon mean? Is it as simple a matter as a longer winter or an indication that spring might soon arrive, or is there a deeper scientific reasoning for this displacement.

They have clearly chosen this residential driveway as a temporary home for the heat that it gives off, and the seeds the residents of the house often spread, but perhaps the glistening snowmelt also drew them here. There is a chance that from above, that moist stretch might have looked like a short section of river.

Fortunately, the ducks seem to realize the error of their assessment as they descend, and not one of them has skidded painfully across that unyielding surface expecting a splash on impact.

Is this another sign of nature gone wrong? Is this perhaps the result of the same factors that have caused other species of bird to fall dead from the sky en masse? Is it related to the massive schools of fish that have been washing up dead around the globe? Did whatever confused these ducks attack the world honeybee population in a similar manner, and if so, is the world’s duck population experiencing a sudden and mysterious cull?

There are many possible explanations, many of them related to familiar human traits.

Ducks are sometimes early for their scheduled appointments.

Ducks have leaders and follow them blindly.

Some ducks are born stupid.

There may not even been a solid explanation. Maybe this is just what nature intended…

Story-A-Day #92: White Lie

WHITE LIE

I woke up with a yawn and a stretch then slowly rolled out of bed. The weekend had arrived, and none-too-soon. I wandered down the hallway towards the kitchen, sliding my feet along the smooth hardwood floors. Today would be a solid day. It was winter, true, but I was done with hibernating. Spring was not far off and I knew that once it arrived, I would regret the fact that I hadn’t enjoyed a little more of what winter had to offer.

I put on a pot of coffee, fried some eggs and bacon, toasted a couple pieces of bread, poured a glass of orange juice, and slid into my seat at the dining room table. My first bite was halfway to my mouth before I noticed the scene out the patio door in front of me. It was pristine.

I abandoned my breakfast for a moment and stared out at the wonderland beyond the frosty glass door. Ten inches of fresh powdery snow had fallen overnight, adding to the impressive amounts that we already had.

Yes, today was going to be a good day.

I finished up my breakfast, showered and dressed, then went into the storage room and dug out my snowshoes. There were miles of trails behind my house and I was going to explore them all.

Someone had beat me to the trails, which was good because they had blazed a bit of a trail for me to follow. The sky was a deep, regal blue and the sun shone down brightly. It wasn’t long before I had undone my coat to let a little cool air in.

I wasn’t the only one who was enjoying the trails either. Big fluffy bunnies bounded through the snow and chickadees flittered through the snow heavy branches, dropping big clumps of snow to the ground. It was another world in that forest, an immaculate realm of clean, white pureness. The air was crisp and fresh. The trees were silent. It was probably the extra snow, but the usually ubiquitous sound of distant traffic had been erased from the world as well.

I eventually caught up to the trailblazer, and greeted her with a warm smile. She had flopped down into the snow and was sipping on a thermos.

“Hot chocolate?” she asked, extending the thermos up towards me.

“I’d love a bit,” I replied, and plopped down next to her.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” she said as I handed the thermos back.

“More so as the day goes on,” I replied. “I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”

It was a lie, but an innocent white one. I hoped the day would never end.