One of the perks with living in a seasonal climate is the little gifts the seasons give. Spring gives flowers, and today I spotted for the first time in a long time my favorite: the crocus.
They're small but sturdy, they're brightly colored, and they always mean that spring is upon us finally. What more could one ask from a flower?
Edit 3/26/04: Even the New York Times thinks so:
"Oh, yes, crocuses. We'd almost forgotten. The glacial mantle of ice and snow has withdrawn, and in the disorder it left behind - matted lawns, pulped leaves - the first bulbs are rising. And not merely rising, but standing tall, as tall as a crocus gets, quivering in a southerly breeze. The crocuses come up in the colors of repudiation, rejecting winter and all its monochromatic affairs. It's always something to see the stems of the early bulbs cleaving their way up through the soil, a reminder of the power of small things, the undeterred thrust of the season."
The article goes to talk about the first robin of spring and other seasonal harbingers. I have to wonder, though, about the significance of the robin I saw today: it was dead.