My woods are still brown. Dark puddles stretch beneath bare branches. The poison ivy that will be so thick and glossy later in the year has not yet appeared. The ground is covered with wet dead leaves and last year's dried stalks.
What I notice most are the brilliant mosses, shining from stumps and logs. I stop to look at them up close because they aren't all the same. Some are shaped like little ferns, others like Christmas trees. Some are thick and spongy; others cling tightly to logs. Even the green varies, from a rich dark green to a light true green.
When I kneel down on the wet ground, I can see sporophytes protruding from moss, the result of sexual reproduction. These first cells of the next generation wave toward the sky, ready to send spores off to spread more moss through the woods.