The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure
William Wordsworth. Lines Written in Early Spring
I went for a walk two days after the astronomical spring, as I wanted to take a few pictures of flowers, provided that it’s a subject matter that I scarcely photograph.
The path wound between the bare shapes of leafless trees, and, on the edge there were some little lesser celandine, a harbinger of spring. The wood was silent and motionless in the cold air of the late afternoon. Only the birds celebrated the new season.
Suddenly, 100 meters away in front of me, in a bend in the trail, stood a border forsythia bush, full of flowers.
I spent some time practicing macro photography, while some strollers looked out of the corner of their eyes at me, an eccentric person who stuck their nose in a bush.
Lost In Landscapes 