Equilux, equinox. Spring, anyhow.

I learned a new word. Equilux. The day when daylight and night hours are exactly equal, 12 hours each. Not exactly the equinox; that's the day when the earth's axis lines up exactly over the equator. Spring equinox this year falls day after tomorrow, the 20th, at 7:46 AM, Pacific time.

The equilux comes a little earlier, and it varies according to your location, because the sun's light bends as it passes through the earth's atmosphere, giving us a few extra minutes of daylight. Here, on the 50th parallel (latitude), yesterday we had 11 hours, 58 minutes of daylight; today, we passed the moment, and we got 12 hours, 2 minutes of daylight. So, no equilux this year. The moment passed in the middle of the night.

With our new, permanent Daylight Savings Time, dawn today was at 7:28. A dim, grey, wet dawn, but daylight, anyhow. Nice.

In the bush the other day, I saw the first sprouts of red elderberry leaves, one of our first spring bloomers.

Sambucus racemosa ssp. pubens var arborescens. The long name distinguishes our local variety; it will  have red berries; over on the mainland, away from the coast, the berries are black.

Another early spring delight. Yesterday my forsythia had yellow buds; today, they've all opened.

I found this behind the museum. Hellebore, at the end of its flowering time; it's a winter bloomer.

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Aprendí una palabra nueva. Equilux. La fecha cuando las horas de dia y de noche son iguales; 12 horas de luz, 12 de oscuridad. No cae precisamente en el equinoccio, que es el dia en que el sol se encuentra directamente sobre el equador terrestre. El equinoccio de primavera de 2026 cae pasado mañana, el 20 de marzo, a las 7:46, hora del Pacífico.

El equilux llega un poco antes del equinoccio; el dia depende del lugar, más tarde mientras más al norte, debido a que la luz se desvía al pasar por la atmósfera, dándonos unos pocos minutos más de luz.  Aquí en el paralelo de latitud, nos tocaron 11 horas con 58 minutos de dia ayer; hoy hemos pasado el momento preciso, y tuvimos 12 horas con 2 minutos diurnos. De hecho, entonces, no vimos el equilux este año;  el momento pasó a medianoche.

Con nuestro nuevo sistema de "Hora de Verano" permanente, amaneció hoy a las 7:28. Un amanecer gris, sombrío, húmedo, pero luz solar, por lo menos.

En el bosque vi los primeros brotes de las hojas de elderberry, Sambucus racemosa. Es una de las primeras de nuestras plantas nativas en florecer en la primavera.

1. Sambucus racemosa ssp. pubens var arborescens. El nombre tan largo sirve para diferenciar este arbusto de bayas rojas del otro, también nativo, pero que crece en el continente, lejos de la costa, y que produce bayas negras.
2. Otra de las plantas tempranas de primavera, la forsitia. Ayer aparecieron los primeros botones amarillos; hoy las flores están todas abiertas.
3. Estas flores, eléboros, las vi atrás del museo. Ya se están marchitando; florecen en invierno.

While I wait

The weather is ... well, typical Vancouver Island spring weather; sunshine, snow, rain, freezing wind, fog, sun warm on your back; all in quick succession, changing from moment to moment.

But the spring flowers just keep on trucking. Daffodils bloom under my kitchen window, crocuses and hyacinths and Johnny-jump-ups beside the carport, forsythia over the lawn and up and down the street. And I saw a bee foraging among the plum blossoms.

Crocuses and hyacinths. And the first leaves of the next wave: bluebells.

Forsythia against a briefly blue sky.

Zeroing in on a pair of crocuses. Love that purple!

At the edge of the woods, red-flowering currant is coming right along.

The first salmonberry flowers should be opening in a week or so. Waiting is hard.

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Si hay una palabra que define el clima de la isla, sería "cambiadizo". Especialmente durante la primavera. De un momento a otro nos ofrece sol, lluvia, nieve, vientos helados, neblina, el calor del sol en nuestras espaldas, más nieve, más lluvia, ...

Pero las flores de la temporada siguen como si nada. Bajo la ventana de mi cocina, florecen los narcisos; al lado de la cochera, los jacintos, las pensamientos, los crocus. Arriba, la forsitia se extiende hacia el cielo. Y vi una abeja buscando polen en las flores del ciruelo.

Fotos:

1. Jacintos y crocus, y las primeras hojas de las campanillas.
2. Forsitia.
3. Unos crocus blancos con violeta oscuro. Me encanta este color.
4. Al borde del bosque, las primeras hojas de Ribes sanguineum toman el sol.

Las primeras flores de salmonberry, Rubus spectabilis deben abrirse en una semana, más o menos. Me cuesta trabajo esperar.

Mostly greys and blues. And a touch of yellow.

It was an undecided sort of day. Is it winter still, or are we getting into spring? The sun kept trying to break through the clouds but the clouds were winning; the world was blue-grey. I went to Baikie Island; maybe I would find early buds. There, some of the trails were under snow, some dryish, some under water. And yes, there were leaf buds, but it was too dark to see their colours.

But the wintery light, what there was of it, made a good backdrop for the bare branches.

Baikie Slough and bare branches.

Bare branches, reflected in the slough

Alder catkins and the beginnings of leaf buds.

No catkins here. Must be a maple.

Tree lace: a tree full of catkins.

The sun again trying to do its job. The trees are cottonwoods.

And when I got home, I found my forsythia showing off its yellow-tipped flower buds. So there's that.

Must be spring, after all.

A Skywatch post.

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Era uno de esos dias, ni era primavera, ni tampoco invierno, o tanto invierno como primavera; no se decidía. El sol trataba de penetrar las nubes, pero por la mayor parte, no lo lograba. Todo era de un color gris/azul. Fui a la isla Baikie, con las esperanzas de encontrar brotes nuevas de hojas. Los senderos tambien eran variables; algunos bajo nieve, otros puros charcos de agua, otros casi secos. Y sí, había brotes nuevos, pero tan poca luz había que no se podían distinguir sus colores.

Pero la luz invernal, la poca que había, hacía un buen telón de fondo para las ramas desnudas.

Fotos:

1. El agua tranquila de Baikie, y ramas desnudas.
2. Ramas reflejadas en el agua.
3. Candelillas de aliso y los principios de brotes de hojas.
4. Aquí no hay candelillas. El árbol debe ser un arce.
5. Encaje de árbol: un árbol lleno de candelillas.
6. El sol otra vez trata de penetrar. Los árboles son álamos.
7. Y llegando a mi casa, descubrí que la forsitia estaba luciendo sus nuevos botones amarillos. Parece que sí viene la primavera.

Un post de Skywatch. 

Busy busy

What is it with To-Do lists? I'm going to Mexico in a couple of weeks to meet up with my son, who I haven't seen since last century, and suddenly the lists start sprouting on my desk. And though I keep crossing things off, they just keep getting longer anyhow.

(I just now thought of two more tasks that must be added. When will this end?)

In all my busyness, sometimes I pause to look out the window. And even through rain-washed glass and insulating plastic sheeting, the forsythia on the lawn is glorious.

Ahhhh!

Random shot at windowsill stuff. Just because. The purple scrap is a finished African violet.

Now. Back to work. Gotta get ahead of those lists.

More spring goodness

Crocuses!

With stripy shadows from the shrubs across the path.

 And snowdrops!

Resting my eyes from counting distant Trumpeter swans. The snowdrops droop in a swan-like posture, too.

And forsythia!

Recent windstorms had broken off a few branches from the forsythia on my front lawn. I realized they were trying to bud, even lying abandoned on the grass, so I brought them inside and gave them some water. And now they're blooming before their sisters back on the bush.

So very yellow!

Yellow, yellow

The forsythia is an uninspiring shrub most of the year; an unruly sprawl of small-leafed, rough stems, a shapeless tangle in the hedge, usually untrimmed, sheltering weeds out of the reach of all but the most obsessive gardeners.

But in the early spring, while the alders and cottonwoods are still wearing winter drab, the forsythia bursts into glorious, riotous, brilliant yellow blooms from the base of the branches to the new green shoots at their tips.

Each spring, I look for a bush that has overstepped its boundaries, obstructing a sidewalk or moving into a neighbouring property. There, I gather an armload to bring home and brighten my kitchen table.

Bursting out all over

Zooming in. Tidy round anthers in a circular cup. 

The flowers don't last long. The ones I picked two days ago are already folding their petals; new leaves will soon replace them.