These days, the sun rises an orange-red ball, laying a line across the water of the same colour and tinting the bay a pale purple. With no clouds to catch the colour, the sky remains blue.

This red morning sun is not a warning of bad weather to come.

There is no rain in the immediate forecast, as much as I would like some. And the bay remains still as glass some days. There is no wind. Everything is still. Only the birds break the silence.

This week, once the sun is in the sky for an hour, it recovers the usual brilliant yellow. Last week, it held on to the orange half the morning. That was smoke from Alberta’s wildfires. This orange-red is likely mist rising off the water.

Grass and clover greened up quite quickly, though a few spots stayed brown through the colder weather. Small flowers in the lawn sprouted pretty early. Dandelions of course, english daisies, wild strawberries, and some small purple flowers that I don’t know the name of.

Finally, the tree canopy is green. Birch and aspen came quickly. Maple took its time. The ash, however, are just now showing a touch of reddish green.

I have been waiting for those leaves anxiously, wondering if any of the trees were dead, wondering how many branches have died. Leaves have come on every tree around our house, and so far, only a couple big branches look to be dead.

As soon as the snow left, I realized that the new juniper was a terrible colour of brown. I cut it back bit by bit, hoping to come across green under the bark. No luck. It was fine in the fall. Maybe the deep cold we got without snow cover killed it.

A hardwood shrub had no leaves at all. It was showing signs of trouble last year, but it too I cut back step by step checking for life. It is gone.

And my dogwood! Only a few healthy branches with small green leaves. I cut out the grey branches, will pamper the plant all summer in hopes it can recover. It looks so sad beside the lush, shining green of the holly.

The two-year-old lilac is a rich green, and the flowers a deep purple. The rose of sharon that I planted the same year appears grey until you walk right up to it. The buds are beginning to show green. It will come.

Until this week, I was worried about the bumble bees. I had seen one. Now, the garden is buzzing. The backyard prunus is full of pale pink fragrant flowers. It is buzzing with these yellow and black bees.

In places under the trees, there are grey clouds in the air, in front of my nose. Little black flies. They end up in my nose, in my hair. I’ve heard mosquitos and now am seeing a few. Caught sight of a couple jet black spiders scrambling among the rocks by the shore. None of the more colourful web-spinners yet. They’ll come, I am sure. A couple butterflies have flashed white wings among the plants.

The bright orange of a baltimore oriole has visited. The hummingbirds are darting around the kitchen window where their feeder hangs – only during the day; I bring it in before dusk, put it out after bears are resting again. I do not need a bear at my kitchen window. Flashes of red come with flickers and downy and pileated woodpeckers. The cardinals seem to be hiding, nesting perhaps.

Daffodils have lasted, and the narcissus are at their peak. Trilliums are starting to fade to pink in the forest, but purple violets are also holding on. The yellow trout lilies are done, but the yellow violets are peeking through. A few buttercups and there are plenty of yellow dandelions. I like dandelions less than ever now that I know that their pollen is low in protein, not good bee food.

Other colours are coming. The allium are ready to burst open their particular shade of purple. Iris and lily leaves are green and full, assuring me their flowers will bloom in good time. It feels like spring and colour have arrived for real.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation.

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