When the crusty snow thaws, the marshes crack wide and the sunshine coaxes crocus buds from the crystallized earth, many people feud with Spring Fever.
Most onerous for me are the times I walk through the gardens, crisp leaves rolling and nudging off my still bare toes.
The warm sun reluctant to give up its summer is shining lower in the horizon. Rays still piercing through the glow of red, orange and golden leaves to reveal the shimmering backdrop of azure skies.
Quietly, as if to not interrupt the gentle hum of contentment, I climb the stairs to the porch where my opened laptop patiently awaits.
Can it wait?
Deadlines approach but I languish in the comforting melodies of warblers, nuthatches, goldfinches and chickadees. I shutter my eyes and wait for the words to flow.
My mind is vacant.
The prose is scarce.
Only my spirit speaks, but in a language incomprehensible to the earthly world.
Working among nature is generally cathartic and a blessing wrapped within the life of freelancing.
But today, I pack up the laptop, relocating it to my office inside.
For I have Fall Fever; and for me, it’s a fleeting and romantic time where nature flits with my emotions, endearing me to the rolling sandy hues that transform a season. Calling me are the playful kittens scampering in the yard, and my white Bichon begging for a game of fetch.
The stories will wait til evening, when the voices grow still.