May...
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 "Harry" (Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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The First of May at Stillwater Gleam...
"The First of May at Stillwater Gleam" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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The veil was thin.
Thin as the morning dew that clung to the grasses along the shore of Stillwater Gleam, each drop holding a fragment of the waking sky.
Erica felt it the moment she stepped outside.
Not cold, not warmth—but something in between. A presence. A quiet hum beneath the surface of things.
It was the first of May.
Behind her, the lights of Bean & Birch Coffee House still glowed softly in the early dawn. Maren had opened early—earlier than usual—because something about the morning had insisted upon it. Lucy was already inside, setting out fresh scones. Sam leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, as though he had been called there without quite knowing why.
“Come on,” Erica had said.
And they had come.
Now they moved quietly along the narrow path that wound through the pines toward the small clearing just beyond the bend in the shoreline. Liam was there too, Mabel at his side, the border collie alert but uncharacteristically silent. Even Toby and Martha followed without their usual chatter, as though the morning itself had asked for reverence.
No one spoke.
They didn’t need to.
The woods were speaking.
A soft mist hovered just above the ground, weaving through the trunks of the trees like something alive. The scent of damp earth and crushed fern rose with each step. Somewhere, a thrush called—a clear, fluted note that seemed to echo deeper than sound.
They reached the clearing just as the first hint of lavender light touched the horizon.
And there—unexpected, impossible, yet somehow right—stood a simple pole at the center of the space.
Not tall. Not grand.
But wrapped with ribbons.
Red and cream.
They stirred gently, though the air was still.
Maren let out the softest breath. “Well… that wasn’t here yesterday.”
“No,” Sam said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
Erica stepped forward, drawn without hesitation. The dew shimmered along the grasses at her feet, and when she knelt, she saw it—the hawthorn just at the edge of the clearing, its blossoms pale and delicate, its thorns catching the morning light.
She reached out, brushing her fingers along a bead of dew.
It was colder than she expected.
Alive.
Without thinking, she touched it to her cheek.
A small, sharp breath escaped her lips—not from the chill, but from something deeper. A spark. A recognition. As though something long quiet within her had stirred.
Behind her, Mabel gave a low, soft whine.
Liam turned.
“Did you hear that?”
At first, there was nothing.
Then--
Laughter.
Not loud.
Not near.
But present.
It moved through the trees like wind, though the branches did not sway. The ribbons on the pole began to shift, slowly, as though responding to a rhythm no one else could hear.
Lucy reached for Maren’s hand.
“Tell me I’m not the only one—”
“You’re not,” Maren whispered.
At the far edge of the clearing, where an old oak stood rooted and unmoving, the light gathered.
Not brighter.
But deeper.
And for the briefest moment—no more than a breath—they saw him.
A figure shaped from bark and leaf, from shadow and green light. His presence was not frightening, but vast—ancient in a way that made the heart pause. His eyes held something like recognition.
Not of them.
But of the moment.
Of the turning.
He inclined his head—just slightly.
Acknowledgment.
Welcome.
Then the sun broke.
A single beam of gold cut through the trees, striking the clearing like an arrow of light.
And he was gone.
The mist lifted.
The ribbons fell still.
The woods erupted into birdsong—robins, warblers, finches, their voices weaving together into something bright and undeniable.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Toby laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that answers the question of whether May has arrived.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “I don’t think May arrives,” he said. “I think… it reveals itself.”
Erica stood, touching her cheek once more.
“It’s here,” she said simply.
They turned back toward the path, toward the warmth of coffee and the familiar comfort of Bean & Birch—but something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not in a way that could be explained.
But enough.
Enough to feel.
Behind them, the clearing remained.
Quiet.
Waiting.
And at its center, the ribbons stirred once more—just slightly—as though remembering the dance.
* * * * * * * * * *
The sky is clear this morning.
Not the tentative clearing of April, but a wide, open blue that seems to stretch without hesitation. The woods are alive with birdsong—layer upon layer of it—each voice certain, each note a declaration that the season has turned.
Outside the window, the daffodils have opened.
Not one or two—but many. Small suns gathered in the garden, catching the light and holding it close.
I sit with my coffee, savoring its warmth, its familiar comfort. The window is open, just enough to let in the scent of morning—the earth, the green, the promise of what the day will bring.
And through the cottage, the gentle, fluting notes of Suite Antique move like a quiet blessing.
May has arrived.
Not as a whisper.
But as a presence.
It is a month of expectation, yes—but not the distant kind. Not the kind that waits for something beyond reach. May invites us to recognize that what we have been waiting for has, in many ways, already begun.
Blossoming.
Growth.
Light lingering longer into the evening.
There is a quiet courage in this month—a willingness to open, to trust, to step forward into something fuller. Where April asked us to notice, May asks us to participate.
To say yes.
To the day.
To the moment.
To the life unfolding just beyond our window.
Another sip of coffee.
The warmth settles.
The music continues.
And I am reminded of something simple, something true--
May is proof that change can be beautiful.
So this morning, on this first day of May, I offer a small, quiet intention:
To notice.
To step outside.
To welcome what is already here.
And to trust that what is growing—within and around us—is enough.
“May is the month of expectation, the month of wishes, the month of hope.” ~Emily Brontë
~Wylddane
Thin as the morning dew that clung to the grasses along the shore of Stillwater Gleam, each drop holding a fragment of the waking sky.
Erica felt it the moment she stepped outside.
Not cold, not warmth—but something in between. A presence. A quiet hum beneath the surface of things.
It was the first of May.
Behind her, the lights of Bean & Birch Coffee House still glowed softly in the early dawn. Maren had opened early—earlier than usual—because something about the morning had insisted upon it. Lucy was already inside, setting out fresh scones. Sam leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, as though he had been called there without quite knowing why.
“Come on,” Erica had said.
And they had come.
Now they moved quietly along the narrow path that wound through the pines toward the small clearing just beyond the bend in the shoreline. Liam was there too, Mabel at his side, the border collie alert but uncharacteristically silent. Even Toby and Martha followed without their usual chatter, as though the morning itself had asked for reverence.
No one spoke.
They didn’t need to.
The woods were speaking.
A soft mist hovered just above the ground, weaving through the trunks of the trees like something alive. The scent of damp earth and crushed fern rose with each step. Somewhere, a thrush called—a clear, fluted note that seemed to echo deeper than sound.
They reached the clearing just as the first hint of lavender light touched the horizon.
And there—unexpected, impossible, yet somehow right—stood a simple pole at the center of the space.
Not tall. Not grand.
But wrapped with ribbons.
Red and cream.
They stirred gently, though the air was still.
Maren let out the softest breath. “Well… that wasn’t here yesterday.”
“No,” Sam said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
Erica stepped forward, drawn without hesitation. The dew shimmered along the grasses at her feet, and when she knelt, she saw it—the hawthorn just at the edge of the clearing, its blossoms pale and delicate, its thorns catching the morning light.
She reached out, brushing her fingers along a bead of dew.
It was colder than she expected.
Alive.
Without thinking, she touched it to her cheek.
A small, sharp breath escaped her lips—not from the chill, but from something deeper. A spark. A recognition. As though something long quiet within her had stirred.
Behind her, Mabel gave a low, soft whine.
Liam turned.
“Did you hear that?”
At first, there was nothing.
Then--
Laughter.
Not loud.
Not near.
But present.
It moved through the trees like wind, though the branches did not sway. The ribbons on the pole began to shift, slowly, as though responding to a rhythm no one else could hear.
Lucy reached for Maren’s hand.
“Tell me I’m not the only one—”
“You’re not,” Maren whispered.
At the far edge of the clearing, where an old oak stood rooted and unmoving, the light gathered.
Not brighter.
But deeper.
And for the briefest moment—no more than a breath—they saw him.
A figure shaped from bark and leaf, from shadow and green light. His presence was not frightening, but vast—ancient in a way that made the heart pause. His eyes held something like recognition.
Not of them.
But of the moment.
Of the turning.
He inclined his head—just slightly.
Acknowledgment.
Welcome.
Then the sun broke.
A single beam of gold cut through the trees, striking the clearing like an arrow of light.
And he was gone.
The mist lifted.
The ribbons fell still.
The woods erupted into birdsong—robins, warblers, finches, their voices weaving together into something bright and undeniable.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Toby laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that answers the question of whether May has arrived.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “I don’t think May arrives,” he said. “I think… it reveals itself.”
Erica stood, touching her cheek once more.
“It’s here,” she said simply.
They turned back toward the path, toward the warmth of coffee and the familiar comfort of Bean & Birch—but something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not in a way that could be explained.
But enough.
Enough to feel.
Behind them, the clearing remained.
Quiet.
Waiting.
And at its center, the ribbons stirred once more—just slightly—as though remembering the dance.
* * * * * * * * * *
The sky is clear this morning.
Not the tentative clearing of April, but a wide, open blue that seems to stretch without hesitation. The woods are alive with birdsong—layer upon layer of it—each voice certain, each note a declaration that the season has turned.
Outside the window, the daffodils have opened.
Not one or two—but many. Small suns gathered in the garden, catching the light and holding it close.
I sit with my coffee, savoring its warmth, its familiar comfort. The window is open, just enough to let in the scent of morning—the earth, the green, the promise of what the day will bring.
And through the cottage, the gentle, fluting notes of Suite Antique move like a quiet blessing.
May has arrived.
Not as a whisper.
But as a presence.
It is a month of expectation, yes—but not the distant kind. Not the kind that waits for something beyond reach. May invites us to recognize that what we have been waiting for has, in many ways, already begun.
Blossoming.
Growth.
Light lingering longer into the evening.
There is a quiet courage in this month—a willingness to open, to trust, to step forward into something fuller. Where April asked us to notice, May asks us to participate.
To say yes.
To the day.
To the moment.
To the life unfolding just beyond our window.
Another sip of coffee.
The warmth settles.
The music continues.
And I am reminded of something simple, something true--
May is proof that change can be beautiful.
So this morning, on this first day of May, I offer a small, quiet intention:
To notice.
To step outside.
To welcome what is already here.
And to trust that what is growing—within and around us—is enough.
“May is the month of expectation, the month of wishes, the month of hope.” ~Emily Brontë
~Wylddane