Each day a moment before spring bursts into view, the earth exhales a few more blossoms, some leafy buds, while birds give song to that little hope, the one that takes root in March looking past April for May, for warm, soft air and open windows and skies that put robin’s eggs to shame.
Flickers clatter against the metal chimney flue and black-capped midgets call chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee , hopping through petals fallen by a rainstorm. In one tall pine a glorious eagle eyes the lake’s watery world, watching for a flash of scales. Canada geese, itinerant wanderers, graze along, looking perfectly at home across the border.
We visited Mukilteo Lighthouse Park pressing through a watery, grey day, convinced that soon we’ll be tucking away warm jackets but glad we have them today. A few other sturdy folks stroll around the small park, as the ferries come and go with a rhythm that feels like the tide, washing in, washing out, carrying cars, people and their dreams and worries.
We find tulips in well tended gardens and soak in the color, contrasted against the monotone clouds. Hubby takes a photo of a marooned kite leaning on a chimney of the lightkeeper’s residence and I suggest naming the photo Unplanned Layover.
Along the beach, someone has lit a fire pit and we stand in the warmth, a little unwilling to admit we still crave the smoke and cinders as we lean toward them
Finally, we head up to the Red Cup Café where we find friendly if slightly forgetful service, steaming soup, homemade sandwiches with awesome bread, and a rustic, quirky atmosphere that feels like someone’s beach cabin living room. The room is filled with graying heads interspersed with the multicolored locks of youth, everyone involved in timeless conversation. Wide windows frame the bay below, cool and quiet, unwilling yet to release spring among us but unable to stop her cheery advance columns of blooms.