Coming Back.

No musings or whingings or visits from llamas today, but only a brief hymn of thanks for the return of the bats. There were two of them tonight hunting over the lane in tandem, and I thought I saw a third but couldn’t be certain. How I have longed to see them again after the seemingly endless winter of waiting and walking through more than one trough of darkness; how earnestly I wished them well during the icy blast of Siberian weather; and what cause for celebration that they should come flitting and swooping and pirouetting on none other than Beltane itself.

And the trees of the Shire are now almost in full leaf. And the new growth in field and hedgerow, roadside verge and garden is bursting with all the fulsome richness of the light time. Next to arrive will be the swallows and martins come up from Africa, and maybe then it will be my time to come back. False dawns are still feared, but the energy is stirring.