On a rainy morning, scattered droplets disturbed the trees and gray sky reflected in forest pools. Greenery glistened, mostly moss, clumps of grass, and patches of trout lily leaves. Splatters of white paint were revealed to be hepatica flowers bent against the rain. Suddenly the volume was turned up and the rain intensified, turning to little crystals that bounced off my jacket. It filled the soundscape. Distantly I heard random bird chatter and my mother-in-law’s generator running as it supplemented the hidden sun.

Today the woods whisper with warblers. They tumble about aspen canopies hung with drooping flowers. I walked back to the garden to check on my seedlings and found a brown thrasher hopping among a thick growth of young beeches. His species creates songs with mimicry and he muttered to himself, trying out new pick-up lines. When I left he had moved on to more mundane concerns. He churned through the leaf litter with his feet and beak in search of insects.