Three Dont Tango 10

At last spring is here. We walk through the woods. They are our woods, right at the back of the house. The beech leaves are bright green, like tiny fans unfolding. I pick them, rub the husks off, and pop them in a bag. We will have them with our first spring salad. They are slightly crunchy and taste of nuts.
The blossom is falling off the plum tree, like snow melting. Everywhere is the ticking of beetles in the dry leaves, the starched sound of blackbirds scraping for food, and a whole symphony of birdsong.
The sun is warm, and the old stone wall glows where the sun hits the lichen.
Annabel has bent down to look at some small blue flowers poking up above last year's leaves. I move over to her and play with her skirt, and her body underneath.
She has uncovered a cluster of irises. Suddenly she turns round and hugs me. She giggles. "John-John, it's spring. We ought to celebrate."
We tumble into the dry bed of leaves, with the plum blossom falling like random irises around us.
There is a robin scarcely a glance away, watching us, head slightly cocked. Along the curve of the hillside above us a pheasant creeps low to the ground through the ivy, and hops onto a branch. He stretches, and spreads wide a wing, then fans his tail, and sits straight up.
There is something so deliberate about the way he stands in the bright sunshine showing off. He is looking for a mate, but I have a mate beneath me, and we lie, also in the spring sunshine, quite deliberately showing off our serious creation.
Somewhere deep inside us is a child who whispers that she wants to join the spring. Who will she be? We lie there wondering.

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