The light comes low and clean on this cool, although some would call it cold, spring morning in Maine. Morning sun slips between the stones and catching on the yellow faces of the daffodils. They stand where winter left them, thin and certain, their color too bright for the memory of snow. A breeze from the river below moves through and they bow, not in weakness, but in rhythm with the earth waking beneath them.
One flower holds steady in the foreground, its trumpet open and unashamed, while the others drift in and out of focus like half-remembered thoughts of last winter. There is no crowd here, only quiet company—grass, stems, and the soft blur of more yellow beyond. Life does not arrive all at once. It comes like this. One bloom, then another.
You can almost hear it if you stand long enough—the faint rustle of new growth, the distant call of birds returning, the sound of winter finally loosening its grip.
Spring does not announce itself. It simply persists.
B.A.Neveux Photography 
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