Yesterday Mr C and I went to the Kesling Preserve. This is a narrowish strip of land wedged in between Deer Creek and a branching ravine that its tributaries form. When the snow melts, the water flows through the ravine, swelling a wetland that in turn rushes through a channel into the swift-running Deer Creek. The Creek winds north through the forests and farmland before merging into the Galien River. Several feet of snow having suddenly melted, the extent of the Kesling wetland is impressive.
One of the peculiarities of early spring is that autumn is still very evident. It’s almost a reversion to a previous state. All the leaves lying where they fell, a sodden mat, decomposing. And the young beech trees remarkably still sport their papery dry leaves. I don’t know why they keep them, but I like that they do. The spangles of leaves tell where the next generation of massive gray-barked beech trees will be growing. Their blond leaves are indomitable, hanging on when all the other leaves around them have given up. In six weeks, these leaves will disappear, and the woods will wear a green veil, and perhaps we will find trillium and hepatica blooming on the ravine’s slopes, where the water ran.