February

February is becoming my favorite month.  This is when everything in our California is as clean and fresh and new and vibrant as it ever will be.

Venture out into rich woods, or a north-slope meadow in the foothills, preferably soon after a rainy spell, and see if you don’t fall in love with the whole thing.

Deciduous trees—the buckeyes and maples and blue oaks—may be still leafless, or just beginning to bud out, but the small plants—the ground-level things—will never be greener, and above all the mosses, the lichens, liverworts, all the overlooked sub-plants that paint the trees invisibly for most of the year, are all now GROWING.  Mushrooms too, in every possible form and color.

The way rocks are singing with life, painted each with supernal artistry, every one a masterpiece.

The time when all the bare twigs are piping at maximum pressure, popping out in tender new green at every bud.

Mustard, oxalis, acacias, daffodils, and the first tentative goldfields—why such a mania, such an absolute mania, for yellow at this first flush of spring in California.  Is it this way everywhere?