I’m a fool for April! Thoroughly smitten!

To me, there’s no finer time to be alive than during April, no more enthralling place to be than smack at the beginning of this first full month of another glorious Ohio spring.

“The April winds are magical,” said Emerson. And so, they are — whether they’re blowing wet or dry, warm or cool, and no matter if their skies are sunny or gray.

Even when April gusts carry in a few leftover flakes of snow, you can’t get angry. For in the end, April always delivers everything we’ve dreamed about and longed for during the bleakness of winter.

Yes, indeed — I’ve always been a seriously smitten fool for April.

Sure, April generally delivers plenty of showers. But it’s those same abundant rains that resurrect the green grass and quicken the meadow brooks until they babble with enthusiasm — conversing in their ancient language shaped by current and landscape.

Come April, I often stand on the banks of a local stream, listening carefully. There’s mystery in these purling waters. Things to learn from the burble of a pour-over or the fast mutterings of a riffle.

I get to thinking that if only I will pay sufficient attention, I might interpret some word or phrase, become privy to an elemental secret being revealed within the soft, sibilant whispers of pool and eddy.

But April’s robust streams aren’t all talk. Sometimes you’ll hear laughter — a chuckling in a meadow brook or hill-country rill, as if the freshened, hurrying water is filled with mirth.

Just as often, an April stream will be permeated with music — a bright and merry jig, a slow, dreamy waltz, a grand and stirring symphony.

As a fisherman and lifelong devotee of creeks and rivers, I find both hope and solace in these vernal songs of moving water.

Call them melodies for an April fool.

In fact, one of April’s most glorious gifts has always been its seasonal music, doubtless most exemplified by innumerable and lively birdsongs. Each morning, well before the rising sun, while dawn is still but a sleepy thought beyond the eastern horizon, the songs begin — likely as not, started by a few boisterous robins trading whistles.

Yet those tuning-up red-breasts won’t remain soloists for long. Soon you’ll hear a cardinal. Then a sparrow or three. Maybe a wren. And after that… well, the avian choir cranks into full swing and full voice, their numbers along with their enthusiasm and volume increasing exponentially as the light of a new day chases away the darkness.

Too, the singing will continue unabated throughout the day — as if every feathered creature on the planet is excited by April’s magical pull and promise.

Less musical than the birds, certainly, though no less passionate or loud in their clamor, are the amphibious vocalists — the whole trilling, screeching, croaking lot of ‘em, from toads to frogs.

“April hath put a spirit of youth in everything,” claimed William Shakespeare

A single spring peeper may, indeed, peep. But a half-acre bog full of hyla crucifers — hormones raging, each trying to make his voice and amorous offers more audible and appealing than that of his multitudinous competition — generates nothing short of a frenzied racket.

Still, you have to give these tiny choristers their due. April has long held the reputation as the season when our fancy turns towards matters procreative — or at least romantic. So, their inspiration and ardor come naturally.

“There is a holiness about an April day,” wrote Benjamin Rosenbaum. “A blaze of consecrated light.”

How true. April sunlight seems to shine into your very soul, illuminating the interior of even the most winter-darkened heart. April’s light uplifts and enriches.

Of course, the April sun doesn’t always literally shine. Yet whenever a gloomy day appears, keep this in mind: Already our days are nearly four hours longer than they were at the beginning of the year. So, among April’s many gifts is the gift of light — which in turn, gives life.

On the other hand, perhaps it’s not just light you need, but color. If this is the case, take a walk in April’s green-tinged woods.

April wildflowers come in a rainbow of hues, from pastels to primaries, subtle to sublime. Bloodroot, hepaticas, bluets, trout lily, trilliums, violets, spring beauties, rue anemone, wild ginger, coltsfoot, Dutchman’s breeches, toothwort, bluebells, buttercups, wild geranium, dwarf iris, purple cress… and I’ve barely touched the surface.

Red maples glow like crimson smoke in the woods. Weeping willows erupt in a golden fountain along the creek. For trees in bloom, try serviceberry, wild plum, dogwood, and redbud.

Ahh-h… sweet, sweet April! I purely adore this delightful bestowal of vernal treasures.

If I could, I would hold onto April for a while, slowing its passage until I’ve had sufficient time to savor the month’s many gifts. For no matter how much I try and crowd into each and every day, it always seems like April ends way too soon.

Not that I mind May, of course. In fact, I love it even more. May is the month of my birth, spring’s superlative pinnacle — and my favorite month of the year.

But I also cherish April and love it almost as much. Moreover, while May is still to come, April is already here — and there’s a valuable lesson to be learned in that old dictum to “love the one you’re with.”

Yup, I’m definitely April’s unabashed fool!

Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].