Trees, with their moss green sheen. Wind, confusedly content with bringing cold pricks and subtle humidity. The viral energy of people outside.
From Perseus in the Wind by Freya Stark:
“Who does not feel pagan in the spring? That languor, when the first grass blade is folded so that it can hold a shadow; when lakes are soft, the color of mist and light; when the streams run transparent with liquid notes, their wavelets cold as snowdrops. Cats lie in the sun with the five toes of each paw stretched out, and sleep, like a slow serpent, moves up and down their spine. The notes of birds at evening drop like water falling in water; and the buds, especially beech, have a sharp and bitter smell. The earth is damp, sucking dead leaves down into the furnace of her year, working at growth in warmth and darkness. I hope old age will not deprive me of this repeated visitation of delight in which, with the whole of our planet, we turn ourselves in space towards the sun.”