The April dusk is heavy with air, thick with atmosphere, and laden with thoughts. A storm is most certainly brewing, but that heady brew is charged with an electricity that lends magic both to the evening, and the soul.
The changing of the clocks has bequeathed the gift of encroaching light to the evenings once more: a new-born calf, its legs shake under the unfamiliar weight, yet grow in confidence by the day.
I sit and imbibe the richness of this all-too-welcome scene, feeling comfortably enveloped in the closing evening air, as I watch the incessant stream form its opinions with renewed interest.
A shadow skitters through the branches overhead and arrests my attention. Instinctively, I know it to be a bat, and my heart thrills as I strain for visual confirmation; a few seconds later, and my intuition proves correct, as the silhouette of its wings carve orchestral manoeuvres through the evening air.
This may not be his first appearance of the year, but sitting here in the dying evening, it’s the first appearance to me. Through the long, lonely months of winter, I have longed for these evenings to return. The bat’s tiny wingbeats are a paper-thin flag that signal winter’s final exhale.
After such a prolonged period of snow and cold, Spring seems finally to be ready to adorn this small garden around me. Tentative, she has waited like a bride outside a church, peering in, and biding her time, but now walks down the aisle with an assuredness that is as commanding as it is elegant.
The day may be dying, but the show is just about to begin. As the day’s light finally ebbs into an inky blackness, hope springs eternal behind me, as bulbs, plants and flowers all quest forth with renewed vigour.