God's in his Heaven, All's right with the world

God's in his Heaven, All's right with the world

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven:

The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his Heaven---

All's right with the world!

from Pippa's Song by Robert Browning

How beautiful our weather has been after such a long and dreary winter. Everyone has been about the business of readying life for the coming of summer.  This happy groundhog was caught tidying up his hole while I saw glimpses of another close by. There will be lots of groundhogs this summer with huge appetites for the vegetables in my garden.

When I looked out of the window this morning, I discovered that one of the poles holding our bird feeders was bent nearly to the ground.  It looks like our black bear is out of hibernation too.
                                                                                                                                                                


The fox squirrels are delighted that the sunflower seeds are so easy to reach.

The faint white splotches are giant snowflakes, winter's reminder that it lingers long in these mountains.

On Sunday, my husband and I took a walk through the woods to look for signs of spring.  The nights are still very cold here, and there's little new growth.  We found round lobed hepatica leaves and soon there will be delicate, lavender flowers. Farther up the mountain, patches of snow remain while the green mosses give a preview of the warm, growing season ahead.
                                                         

A locust tree supports a burl.  Why these bumps develop on tree trunks is a bit of a mystery.  While many believe they occur in response to an injury or an invasion by a plant pathogen, no specific cause has been determined.  Because of the unusual grain patterns created by these growths, they are a woodworker's delight. 

The morning sun warms the cozy home of a chipmunk.

These are the remnants of an old road that once went from the gap between the mountains and travelled downward to ford the river below.  It was named for the Seneca Indians whose trail passed through the area going from upper New York to deep into Georgia. My Dad once told me that when he was a boy, the mailman would leave the mail in their box which was located at the point where the gap began. In the spring, when he had baby chicks to deliver, the mailman would tie his horse to the post and walk a quarter of a mile, over to my grandfather's house to deliver his delicate package.
    Today, the road disappears just ahead under the fill of a four lane highway. Below it, there is bulldozing as someone prepares what looks to be another campground.  With the city water coming to serve all of those who, unlike the old-timers, built their houses for the view rather than near a water source, over-development looms ominously.  The local road that replaced this old one in 1931 was also known as the Seneca Pike.  It  has now been renamed after a nearby tourist attraction

After savoring each wonderful moment and being renewed by the warmth and beauty of the walk, we arrived home to hear the welcome "quacking" of the wood frogs happily mating in our daughter's small molded pond. The frogs with bandit faces testify that spring is here.