By Ilsa Graceland

Photo by Ilsa Graceland

I feel the soft, new, green grass tickle my ankles as I 

climb out of the creek, barefoot with my slate-grey 

pants rolled up to my knees. The creek is clear, and 

cold, like the spring melt off it comes from. The spring 

robin chirrups, tugging at a hapless worm in the thawing 

ground. It is easy to meander along the creek bank, sunshine 

warm on my shoulders; though perhaps a tank top is a little 

premature for April. Green gems begin to peak out on the 

branches of the aspen and cottonwoods, greeting the ever green 

evergreens. The first flies buzz through the air, still sluggish 

with winter cold, iridescent-green in the light. Close my eyes 

and I can pretend they’re bees instead. Flies pollinate 

too, you remind me from your perch on a wooden bench 

along the same creek I have just come from. Another curious 

robin hops towards you. I feel the ground beneath my toes, only 

just thawed enough to feel spongy in the midday warmth. 

The world is turning all green again and the grape hyacinth and 

daffodils dance along the water’s edge, waving at you in the spring 

breeze, still chilly even with the sun out. Goosebumps pepper my 

arms, and I tiptoe back to you, gathering my green fleece back 

around myself. You are looking through the photos on your 

camera, no doubt of the same greens that I am now marveling in, 

maybe of the bulb flowers too. Do you take photos of the flies too? 

I ask. The other pollinators. Yes, you reply, of course. They’re very 

interesting up close. Buzz, buzz the flies say in answer. I watch a 

petite frog, speckled and glistening, hop along the other side of the 

creek, probably appreciating the first flies as well.  It is green too.