Before moving to Lausanne, I was aware of big shifts in season. Summer to fall was always dramatic in New England, and snow marked my personal start to winter. Spring was the hardest to define, usually a soggy interstitial of indeterminate length, and summer was marked by cat calls and young men honking horns and leaning out of windows: “Hey! How about a smile?”
Here we don’t have the same dramatic colors in the fall. Summer fades to winter. But spring — spring is when the grocery store is full of new fruits and vegetables, bright after months of tubers. Spring is asparagus season and the beginning of good tomatoes and the endless rows of tiny, staked vines along the terraced slopes of Lavaux.
Now that we live closer to the lake, the rhythm of summer is marked in smaller, more frequent beats.
I see the birds and their babies during my morning walks along the shore.
How they change from week to week!