BOINGGGGGG!

Spring should come with a warning sign at my house today. "Pollinators may be closer than they appear." You take your life into your hands walking out my kitchen door. You could end up with a hummingbird up your nose, or maybe one of those big black fuzzy bees somewhere you'd rather not.  

On the porch, there is a Jets and Sharks-worthy war with a pair of young bananaquits manically nest shopping. They're fixated on the bamboo palm in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the conflict of Mu's fave nap spot being less than 2' away.  They eyeball her, dismiss her as a minor fuzzy distraction, & obsessively plunge back into the task at hand. At least no one has flown into the house to scout homesites yet, as happens every spring. 

The pair of young kestrels in my next door neighbor's Norfolk pine do all their 'he-ing & she-ing' in a ridiculously inconvenient spot atop the pointy & miserably uncomfortable-looking treetop.  Then again, I'm not a raptor & maybe that's a night at the Ritz for them. 

After the torrential (& WONDERFUL--the cistern overflow is trickling, making spring cleaning chores like washing upholstery, screens & windows much more likely--not a lock mind you, just a strong possibility) rain yesterday, the world is turning chartreuse again & there are buds wherever you look. The pineapples, no longer pining for rain, pomegranates shaking pompoms, and the African tulip managing to avoid a bad pun & is simply covered in waxy orange blooms.  

A note here regarding the Thunbergia vines, in ever-expanding, blob-style mounds around my house:  To the friends concerned I'll eventually be trapped inside by the aggressive vines, the tonnage of fat periwinkle blooms is absolutely worth it, so...respectfully...put away your machete & back away slowly & no one will get hurt. 

We don't have a ship until Monday, & though I'm making stock & filling an order, I can feel the 'factory' (me, Mu, a hammer, an anvil & a Joan Crawford movie) starting to step down activities in anticipation of the long, ship-less & hopefully hurricane-less summer. My eleven giant pots full of Seaglass start nagging for contents to be sorted by shade & shape.  I start abandoning black & white movies & move to the technicolor surroundings of the orchidy porch in front (where I am now) or umbrella tables in back for my studio. By the end of this week the shallows of West End beaches will require my presence, promising glass to fill a twelfth pot.  

And the long list of projects I've planned for the off-season will start shimmering on the horizon, a mirage of the absolutely possible, though improbable summer ahead.