"The Last Storm of April" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“And suddenly you know: It is time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”
April 30th arrived not quietly, but with a kind of restless joy—as though the month itself were reluctant to leave.
By late afternoon, the sky above Lone Pine had gathered into a soft, brooding gray. The kind that promised rain, but also something more. The air felt alive—breathing in long, electric sighs between the damp hush of spring and the green-fire promise of summer.
Inside Bean & Birch, the windows fogged gently from the warmth within. Maren stood behind the counter, polishing a mug that didn’t need polishing, while Lucy leaned against the pastry case, watching the sky with narrowed eyes.
“It’s going to do something,” Lucy said.
“It always does,” Maren replied, smiling.
At the long table, the coffee gang had gathered—Erica and Tom, Toby, Martha—and near the door sat Ethan, with Bear stretched at his feet, Isabel tucked comfortably in her front pack, her amber eyes blinking slowly at the room. Perched above the coat rack, Ragnhilde watched everything with that keen, knowing intelligence of hers.
“Storm’s coming,” Ethan said quietly.
“Good,” Martha replied. “April shouldn’t go out without a little drama.”
As if on cue, the first drops came—not tentative, but bold. A sudden, drumming rain that swept across the street and rattled the windows like an eager visitor.
And then—just as quickly—it passed.
The clouds broke open.
Sunlight poured through.
“Now,” Maren said, setting the mug down. “That’s worth stepping outside for.”
They spilled out onto the street, laughing, blinking into the sudden brilliance. The world had changed in an instant. The pavement shimmered. The air carried that deep, intoxicating scent of wet earth—the breath of roots and soil and waking things.
The maples along the road had unfurled their leaves into a soft, luminous green—not loud, not yet, but delicate…like lace stitched by light itself.
“Listen,” Erica whispered.
At first, there was only the hush after rain.
Then--
A single robin.
Then another.
Then a chorus.
And above it all, the sky—still half-streaked with retreating clouds—held something stranger still.
A band of light—not quite a rainbow, not quite mist—hung low over Stillwater Gleam, shimmering faintly, as though the lake itself were exhaling color.
“What do you suppose that is?” Tom asked.
Ragnhilde gave a soft, low croak, shifting her wings.
“It’s April,” Ethan said. “Letting go.”
At that moment, Mabel came bounding down the path from the lakeshore, her fur damp, her eyes bright with purpose. She circled the group once, twice, then stopped—facing the lake.
Bear rose.
Isabel leaned forward in her pack.
All of them, in some quiet, instinctive way, turned to look.
The surface of Stillwater Gleam lay utterly calm—mirror-still—except for one small disturbance.
A ripple.
Then another.
And just for a moment—no more than a breath—the water seemed to glow.
Not brightly. Not dramatically.
But softly.
As though something beneath the surface had stirred…had awakened…and then settled again.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
The light in the sky faded. The robin’s song carried on. The scent of rain lingered.
“May’s coming,” Lucy said at last.
Maren slipped her arm through hers. “I think it already has.”
They stood there a while longer—friends, animals, wings, and quiet wonder—held in that thin, shimmering space between what had been…
and what was just beginning.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning, the light arrives early.
It feels as though only yesterday I would sit here, coffee in hand, gazing out into darkness—waiting for the day to begin. And now…here it is before me. A sky of soft blue. A sunrise rich and golden, spilling gently across the northwoods.
The trees have begun their quiet transformation. What only days ago were bare branches now wear a delicate lace of green—so tender, so new, it almost feels like a secret.
Inside, the music of Maurice Ravel drifts softly--Pavane for a Dead Princess—a piece that always feels like both remembrance and awakening at once. It holds something of April in it, I think…a gentle farewell, a bow of the head, before stepping forward.
I sip my coffee—yes, that first sip that somehow always feels necessary to awaken not just the body, but the soul—and I think of the turning of things.
Of seasons.
Of days.
Of life itself.
William Wordsworth once wrote of the sweetness of visiting the woods when the warm sun returns…when the earth, though once stricken by winter, begins again to thrive.
And that is the quiet miracle before us.
Not just in April.
Not just in May.
But in every beginning.
We are always standing at such a threshold—whether we recognize it or not.
Every morning is, in its own way, an April 30th.
A moment poised between what has been and what may yet be.
We carry with us the remnants of winter—of worry, of weariness, of doubt—but also the unmistakable stirrings of something new.
Hope.
Possibility.
A soft green beginning.
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
It is not simply a clever line—it is a truth written into the very fabric of the world around us.
So today—this morning—this quiet, luminous moment…
Let us release what no longer serves us.
Let us step, gently but surely, into what calls us forward.
Let us listen for the robin’s song.
Let us notice the light.
Let us begin again.
Another sip of coffee…
A breath.
And there it is—the sound of a robin, clear and bright.
And so…
this day begins.
~Wylddane
April 30th arrived not quietly, but with a kind of restless joy—as though the month itself were reluctant to leave.
By late afternoon, the sky above Lone Pine had gathered into a soft, brooding gray. The kind that promised rain, but also something more. The air felt alive—breathing in long, electric sighs between the damp hush of spring and the green-fire promise of summer.
Inside Bean & Birch, the windows fogged gently from the warmth within. Maren stood behind the counter, polishing a mug that didn’t need polishing, while Lucy leaned against the pastry case, watching the sky with narrowed eyes.
“It’s going to do something,” Lucy said.
“It always does,” Maren replied, smiling.
At the long table, the coffee gang had gathered—Erica and Tom, Toby, Martha—and near the door sat Ethan, with Bear stretched at his feet, Isabel tucked comfortably in her front pack, her amber eyes blinking slowly at the room. Perched above the coat rack, Ragnhilde watched everything with that keen, knowing intelligence of hers.
“Storm’s coming,” Ethan said quietly.
“Good,” Martha replied. “April shouldn’t go out without a little drama.”
As if on cue, the first drops came—not tentative, but bold. A sudden, drumming rain that swept across the street and rattled the windows like an eager visitor.
And then—just as quickly—it passed.
The clouds broke open.
Sunlight poured through.
“Now,” Maren said, setting the mug down. “That’s worth stepping outside for.”
They spilled out onto the street, laughing, blinking into the sudden brilliance. The world had changed in an instant. The pavement shimmered. The air carried that deep, intoxicating scent of wet earth—the breath of roots and soil and waking things.
The maples along the road had unfurled their leaves into a soft, luminous green—not loud, not yet, but delicate…like lace stitched by light itself.
“Listen,” Erica whispered.
At first, there was only the hush after rain.
Then--
A single robin.
Then another.
Then a chorus.
And above it all, the sky—still half-streaked with retreating clouds—held something stranger still.
A band of light—not quite a rainbow, not quite mist—hung low over Stillwater Gleam, shimmering faintly, as though the lake itself were exhaling color.
“What do you suppose that is?” Tom asked.
Ragnhilde gave a soft, low croak, shifting her wings.
“It’s April,” Ethan said. “Letting go.”
At that moment, Mabel came bounding down the path from the lakeshore, her fur damp, her eyes bright with purpose. She circled the group once, twice, then stopped—facing the lake.
Bear rose.
Isabel leaned forward in her pack.
All of them, in some quiet, instinctive way, turned to look.
The surface of Stillwater Gleam lay utterly calm—mirror-still—except for one small disturbance.
A ripple.
Then another.
And just for a moment—no more than a breath—the water seemed to glow.
Not brightly. Not dramatically.
But softly.
As though something beneath the surface had stirred…had awakened…and then settled again.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
The light in the sky faded. The robin’s song carried on. The scent of rain lingered.
“May’s coming,” Lucy said at last.
Maren slipped her arm through hers. “I think it already has.”
They stood there a while longer—friends, animals, wings, and quiet wonder—held in that thin, shimmering space between what had been…
and what was just beginning.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning, the light arrives early.
It feels as though only yesterday I would sit here, coffee in hand, gazing out into darkness—waiting for the day to begin. And now…here it is before me. A sky of soft blue. A sunrise rich and golden, spilling gently across the northwoods.
The trees have begun their quiet transformation. What only days ago were bare branches now wear a delicate lace of green—so tender, so new, it almost feels like a secret.
Inside, the music of Maurice Ravel drifts softly--Pavane for a Dead Princess—a piece that always feels like both remembrance and awakening at once. It holds something of April in it, I think…a gentle farewell, a bow of the head, before stepping forward.
I sip my coffee—yes, that first sip that somehow always feels necessary to awaken not just the body, but the soul—and I think of the turning of things.
Of seasons.
Of days.
Of life itself.
William Wordsworth once wrote of the sweetness of visiting the woods when the warm sun returns…when the earth, though once stricken by winter, begins again to thrive.
And that is the quiet miracle before us.
Not just in April.
Not just in May.
But in every beginning.
We are always standing at such a threshold—whether we recognize it or not.
Every morning is, in its own way, an April 30th.
A moment poised between what has been and what may yet be.
We carry with us the remnants of winter—of worry, of weariness, of doubt—but also the unmistakable stirrings of something new.
Hope.
Possibility.
A soft green beginning.
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
It is not simply a clever line—it is a truth written into the very fabric of the world around us.
So today—this morning—this quiet, luminous moment…
Let us release what no longer serves us.
Let us step, gently but surely, into what calls us forward.
Let us listen for the robin’s song.
Let us notice the light.
Let us begin again.
Another sip of coffee…
A breath.
And there it is—the sound of a robin, clear and bright.
And so…
this day begins.
~Wylddane
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