M A Y, enchanted month
In this fragrant month of May the dawn decorates the spider webs with dew beads,
The little feathered elves whistle joyfully in the rows,
In their clothes of light the butterflies twirl like crazy fires,
The nymphs of the forest are wearing the bells of thrush.
On the arcachonnais bench the terns caugek dance their nuptial parade,
A fish with a beak, a black cap extended by a hoop on the nape of the neck, twists the male,
The female seduced by this invitation to the ball launches in impressive piqué,
As a gift, Monsieur concludes his idyll by offering his capture to his beloved.
Above cultivated land, moors and wasteland, the lark of the fields chirped,
From a vertical flight it rises in graying while whirling from a hovering flight,
As hanging from a wire, it dominates its territory to defend it as a mercenary,
Curious, she allows herself to be hypnotized by the mirror of the hunters without disturbance.
Pushing in the rocky or uncultivated sites and near the clear woods of Ariège,
The common biscuits or lunetières owe their name to their fruits to the funny hoe,
Flattened silicules with winged and membranous edges suggesting pairs of glasses,
Their yellow flowers, grouped in racemes, have four petals arranged in crosses.
The spring potential, as beautiful as a small rose bush,
Plays with its charm by raising its small delicate flowers, yellow or red sustained,
They are detached from the elegantly cut foliage with silky and silvery appearance,
Overgrown sometimes by the branches of the leafy asparagus foliage.
At the turn of a clearing, in the illuminated undergrowths or along the lace hedges,
Beware of the encounter of this haughty looking violet bells,
The one called "grass of the devil" can be fatal by its round fruit,
Black berries, round like cherries of belladonna, contain the deadly atropine.
Similar to the jay, inasmuch as it is beautiful in its plumage woven in the material of the heavens,
Head to Persian blue, turquoise wings, everything is blue except the brown tobacco palot back,
The rollier of Europe perched on its branch plunges on a grasshopper, carried away illico,
In a hole in a tree where his female hatch the five eggs laid recently.
He also sails in the blue, flying in the meadows, the wastelands and the gardens,
The blue argus, or common azure, seeks on a clover flower his companion,
The male is recognizable by its top of the wings of color iridescent blue,
While in the female it is brown, set by red dots grenadin.
Fruits of the winter loves, the marcasine babies stamp with impatience,
While warm in the cauldron of the laie the little crowd of small wants to go out one by one,
Still clothed in their pajamas, coffee-colored with cream zebra in elegance,
They camouflage themselves in the forest before they put on their adult coats, their brown coat.
Its enchanting magical flowering hedges and undergrowth, the white hawthorn is announced,
Its white or rosy flowers, open their corollas under the cover of sharp thorns,
Their scent, slightly almond-colored, attracts the treacherous butchers on these snowy clumps,
The legend Celtic specifying that the fairies also would have made their kingdom tricky!
Very close on the empire of the waves, placed on a lily pad or on a stem,
One often confuses the dragonfly and the damsel, two insects with a frail appearance in aerobatics,
The first to a powerful flight evoking a helicopter, the other is more hesitant, nymphea,
At rest the dragonfly keeps its wings apart, the young lady folds them over the abdomen.
In the garden fragrant with rose and lilac when the day capsizes, leaving room for the night,
A strange sizzling rises from the garden while the nightingale greets by his trills in the evening,
This song betrays the presence of the cricket, cousin of the cricket she spends her time buried,
Except in May when the male sings rubbing his wings to attract a beautiful in his dorm.
In cultivated areas, plains and hillsides are transformed into damask paper,
With the mustard yellow of the rapeseed, the green pistachio of barley or the green bottle of wheat,
This patchwork of colors contrasting with brown or red plowed land,
Facing forests and bocages with budding leaves of the tender green to the light brown.
At the turn of a hedge what a marvel of seeing a mare-horse with its fawn,
Worried at the slightest noise she tasted her leaves of beets, a tender picture,
It is the season of "Gone with the wind" our mucous membranes are to the punishment by the pollen,
In Aquitaine the male cones of the pines release their dust of life in yellow powder of Eden.
In the forest there is also the impressive Indian file of tracked processionaries,
Browns with orange spots covered with a million hairs very stinging,
They descend in line from the trunks of pines leaving their shelter of silk in the spring,
Then snake to the ground to go pupate underground and lay all summer.
In May green wheat
And Sings the Jay
L’ ARIÉ…JOIE