Mr. Linton and I have managed to get to the Would-Be Farm for a few Aprils in a row. The cruellest month* offers a couple of attractive trade-offs. We might see snow, but there are blessedly few biting insects.
This time of year, it's possible to watch spring take hold of bare bones of the land.
From Basecamp (with a roaring campfire going, because it's a raw 45° F and the wind is gusting to the mid 20's out of the long barrel of the valley), the hillsides change color almost by the minute.
The tree-trunks begin early April the same grey-brown as the bare granite. The carpet of autumn leaves has been bleached tan. Only the odd pine tree gives color along the horizon.
Then comes a faint pinkening. The first buds, contrary to Robert Frost's lovely poem, are scarlet.
I mean, really -- red?
A pinhead speck of cardinal-red on the sticks of apple saplings, but not crawling. Tragically out-of-focus when I snapped their picture on the single afternoon when they first appeared. Overnight, they grew into what you expect in a bud:
I agree, except as I see it, it's nothing pink that can stay.
*April is not just "the cruellest month/breeding. Lilacs from dead ground" –– it's Poetry month.