Poet Neal Bowers wrote that in the southern spring "hills [are] white with dogwood / or pink with redbud . . . as if [the south] invented hope." The dogwood is coming (mine sport pale green flowers which, with another day or two of sun, will blanch), but the redbud is already here, everywhere, making everything else more intensely blue or green or white or yellow or . . . .
Even the pale blue water tank, graffitied and rusty, and the yellow warning signs and the weathered posts and the horse pasture -- everything so beautiful as if made new again.