By Ilsa Graceland
I feel the soft, new, green grass tickle my ankles as I
climb out of the creek, barefoot with my slate-grey
pants rolled up to my knees. The creek is clear, and
cold, like the spring melt off it comes from. The spring
robin chirrups, tugging at a hapless worm in the thawing
ground. It is easy to meander along the creek bank, sunshine
warm on my shoulders; though perhaps a tank top is a little
premature for April. Green gems begin to peak out on the
branches of the aspen and cottonwoods, greeting the ever green
evergreens. The first flies buzz through the air, still sluggish
with winter cold, iridescent-green in the light. Close my eyes
and I can pretend they’re bees instead. Flies pollinate
too, you remind me from your perch on a wooden bench
along the same creek I have just come from. Another curious
robin hops towards you. I feel the ground beneath my toes, only
just thawed enough to feel spongy in the midday warmth.
The world is turning all green again and the grape hyacinth and
daffodils dance along the water’s edge, waving at you in the spring
breeze, still chilly even with the sun out. Goosebumps pepper my
arms, and I tiptoe back to you, gathering my green fleece back
around myself. You are looking through the photos on your
camera, no doubt of the same greens that I am now marveling in,
maybe of the bulb flowers too. Do you take photos of the flies too?
I ask. The other pollinators. Yes, you reply, of course. They’re very
interesting up close. Buzz, buzz the flies say in answer. I watch a
petite frog, speckled and glistening, hop along the other side of the
creek, probably appreciating the first flies as well. It is green too.