The Return Of The Song Birds
“The deep roots never doubt spring will come.”
― Marty Rubin
Cruel this winter has been.
And to think, December tricked me into thinking it might not be a bad one. Then February came. And the snow continued to fall, even on Easter day. White blankets still cover the forest floors. Grey skies still sit heavy overhead.
But there are, of course, other cues to enlighten the hopeless that spring lurks ever nearer and nearer with each passing day.
It is a habit of mine, perhaps a bad habit if you check the heat bill, to always want my bedroom window open. 360 days a year. I am addicted to the fresh air sweeping over my pillow as I lay in bed. I need to hear what is happening in the woods that surround my home. With the window shut, I feel closed off from it all. Open, and I am a part of it. Still connected.
I can hear the coyotes howl together their plans. I can hear the faint foot prints of the deer cross the road from the high hardwoods to the low, swamp land onto my property. I can hear the eerie caterwauling of the owls. I can hear the wind whisper through the pines. I can hear the choruses of frogs.
And I can hear the first signs of spring— the return of the song birds.
In the pre-dawn, before the time the would-be sun would rise if it were able to break through central New York’s great grey winter skies, the first of the returning song birds alarm morning has come with rhythmic, repeating chords.
Gone are the arctic-residents, the common redpolls. Back are the chipping sparrows, the mourning doves, and even the first robin.
It can’t be far off now.