Winter has moved on. I think we can all safely pack up our sweaters. The past week it has been over eighty degrees. Spring is here to stay. In fact, it is so firmly attached that this afternoon I had a hard time breaking my eyes away from my window, a hard time even thinking about writing. After wrestling with it for a while, I finally just rolled up my sleeves and plugged away, making myself get to work. I eventually made headway. But as my window view darkened, as the shadows grew long through the trees, I decided that I’d give myself an eye break and take the dogs for a run. We headed for the lake.
I whistled, they came, and we left behind a busy day for the quiet of the lake. We let the old log road that winds through the woods take us there. The faithful dogs took off and left me far behind. I followed the sound of their headlong rush through the woods. A crow made mischief’s commentary, fussing unseen at an unhappy hawk. I walked through a cloud of spicy scent, almost like strawberries, and I followed my nose to find a sweetshrub bush blooming off the trail.
On the floor of the woods, tiny purple flowers bloomed from tall stems, their feet firmly planted in moss, their heads moving gently east, moving with the warm wind. “Johnny Jump up” violets with purple faces and orange throats bowed their slender necks, nodding their big heads in agreement.
Out of the woods we came, into the meadow and toward the lake. Goats grazed in a belly-high sea of clover. When we came out of the trees, they spotted us, their heads flying up in unison alarm. Then they took off, bolting into the wind, leaving wide wakes in the blowing clover. The good dogs didn’t chase: they knew better.
Cresting the hill, we found the lake. It was much greener than it was last week. The leaves had all filled in, glazing the surface of the water with color, like green carnival glass. Sophie waded into the cool water. She swam across the lake, leaving her own rippling wake behind. She was sleek and black- looked like long-necked beavers as she paddled to the other side. She turned, using her long tail as a rudder. She began to swim back across, just for the fun of it.
The sky was palest blue, floating with a fleet of white clouds. Not a mosquito in sight. The sun was low, but still glowed warm on my face. Out in the lake, a fish broke the water, or maybe a turtle, or a snake. I looked off the end of the dock and spied a school of tiny fish hiding in my long shadow. They swam in a cloud, turning sharply and perfectly in unison. Left, then right, making me wonder. Which one of them was the leader?
Through the woods, I heard the sweet bleats of new baby goats. Vesta’s prolific ewes had produced two and three kids apiece and they were adding their voices to the day. Back toward the log road, on the hill, I saw the other goats had returned. They grazed white against the clover’s brilliant green.
Sophie was still swimming.
The sun felt splendid. I soaked it up like a thirsty traveler drinks out of a cool well. Then I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear the hollow sound of the overflow drain, filled and rushing out with water. It was a mighty fine sound, after four years of a hard Georgia drought. It sounded like the grateful song of plentiful spring rains and filling water tables.
But all too soon, the sun started to burn my winter-pale face. My cheek got hot. So I turned on my perch to get an “even roast” on the other side. Sophie heard me when I shifted, so she finally came out of the water and joined the rest of the dogs in tongue-lolling abandon on the bank. They all had their fill of paddling around in the water and were sprawled out in the cool grass. They rested in the shade and I sat in the sun.
Eventually, the other side of my face started to feel a little too toasty. The sun won. I decided that I needed to retire the field and admit graceful defeat. Leaving the dock, I went to shore, crossed back over the dam, cut through the clover field, and slipped back into the woods. My faithful dogs had deserted me again, leaving behind a trail of wet prints for me to follow on the brown road. I trundled along behind, two legs slower than four.
I puzzled as I walked back through the spring woods. I felt like I hadn’t felt in a long time. Like when I was a kid and had been swimming all day at John Tanner State Park. I felt warm and tired and peaceful and it filled me with satisfaction. With warm, springtime satisfaction.
Previously published in the Times-Georgian.
Mimi Gentry can be read every Thursday in the Times-Georgian.