It is six pm on March 1. Evening has fallen at a perfect moment. Nature’s light is dimming and indoor lamps glowing in time for homecoming, for supper.
In the pale sky overhead, silver airplanes trace their remarkable geometry as they descend: an equilateral triangle, a perfect X. Below, where I walk, I see green lines of daffodils, small squares of bright grass, spherical buds emerging bravely into a cold dry world.
Some people say the daffodil is the flower of hope because it is the first one to bloom in the spring.
Between man’s aerial artwork and nature’s botanical display, the birds swoop and dive, their high sweet voices strong and excited. Evensong bells peal their faith in Lent, in Easter, in suffering and rebirth.