As I watch clouds gather and raindrops ripple in concentric rings on the pond, maternal instincts kick into high gear. A storm is coming.
I find it hard to suppress the urge to cover the fragile, tender buds in warm blankets to prevent them from freezing, but snow could accumulate to a couple of feet and sopping wet blankets would crush them. One mature tree would need twenty or more. I would need hundreds of blankets and a cherrypicker to cover them. I shrug my shoulders and sigh.
Just as roses and bushes have leafed out, flowering trees are at their peak and fruit trees in bud are about to emerge, a huge snowstorm was predicted to slam into Colorado. Yesterday, I rushed through the yard to take pictures while inhaling the heady fragrance of flowering trees. High clouds whispered the same news.
Last year it snowed every Wednesday for eight weeks and froze all those fragile buds. We had nary an apple or raspberry and our springtime consisted of monotonous shades of green.
Maybe forecasters are wrong, but it’s quiet. Too quiet. Not one leaf ruffles nor bird sings as nature stores its kinetic energy for what is to come. I can feel it deep in my vertebrate.
Will I hunker down and wait for Mother Nature’s fury? No way. The same forecasters are predicting two to four feet of snow in the mountains. I plan to hit I-70 before the rush and the snow becomes too deep to travel.
I will keep my fingers crossed and hope temperatures hover above freezing down here in Boulder. They’ve been wrong before.
I’ll keep you posted…
Do you worry about the weather or do you sing Que Sera, Sera?