In the early days of Spring, stand at the base of a hill and look up the curve of the land.

Before any of the trees have unfurled their small bright green sun sails.

You might hear the chirping of water-loving frogs in the wet river-bottom land in the distance.

But it is before the choir of bugs has warmed up and begun their song.

The ground is covered in copperbrown leaves.

Here and there woodland flowers have begun to bloom white and blue and purple.

The blue sky seems supported by the majestic columns of the dark and and brooding trunks of Black Walnuts and the high white dragon-scale bark of White Oaks, still visible in these greening days.

But the colors are not all earthy tones.

Now, before any of the other trees have shown up, look deep into the woods and you'll catch a glimpse of a shimmering bloom, like the first firework to start the show.  An overture to the grand opera of the season.

An effervescent pink bursts and cascades here and there along the hillside.

Not high among the tall Oaks, Walnuts, and Hickories, but low enough to throw a baseball over.

Here, among us, close enough for a child to reach up and taste the sweet crunchiness their flowers.

They are the bright standard of Spring, the first bold announcements of the trees.

The Redbuds are awake.

And they sing a song of a new season of warmth and blooming.