Sounds Of Spring
We are in early spring, suffering early spring. The day is overcast, having rained since 4 am when the thunderclap woke me. Now subsided to more of a mist, a robin is singing some song or other but he should have held his peace, for he is a false prophet. More raw than rain would suggest, spring dallies somewhere in the offing while snow mounds suffer its onslaught.
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I was reminded today that we’re changing from glove hunting season to umbrella hunting season. I could have sworn we had more than many. Where would I have put it so I could find it come spring?
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I have just returned, having knocked off walking somewhere north of 5 miles, my calves being as stiff as an old paint brush. All of the sedentary routine of winter paying its respects upon my frame. But I had to get out, between downpours, to reacquaint myself with the world beyond.
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It seems more difficult than previous to be one with nature in winter. I have hazy recollections of the peace and stillness that comes upon a snowstorm, when cross country skiing in the Kettle Moraine. Or the shear aliveness I remember when riding ice cakes down the river. My routine of shoveling first my driveway and then my father inlaw’s, a near record snow fall total this year, the pestering need to rake the heavy snow off the second story roof after first hauling an extension ladder through knee-deep snow, icy roads and teenage drivers under said roof all conspired to take the thrill out of the season.
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So, out I went and, between shivers, thought of last summer. (Can it only be 9 months since the heat wave last August? No one was saying it wasn’t hot, what with the windows stick, the glasses fog and the air smells of rot. Even the water bugs turned their feet up and lay on their backs, breathing heavily. 130 degrees in the shade, if memory serves. Ahh, the pleasures of family get-togethers, this time in Hilton Head, planned two years before. I wasn’t remembering the terrible discomfort of sticky shirts, perspiration racing from forehead to chin, or that certain chafing down lower. What I remembered was the warmth of early morning walks along the beach, lounging in the shallow end like frogs both mornings and afternoons, or after dark reunions with extended family alongside the pool.)
On my walk I found the first signs that spring is near. The pale green just now emerging from underneath the drab yellow of matted grass. Then I looked closer and saw a few green shoots of something thrusting out of mother earth. I admit I saw this because, due to my aching calves, I had slowed to a crawl. Then I stopped altogether. An unusually large bird I’d never seen before, with a black coat, small red head and throat, was looking down at me from its perch in the tree above. We stared at each other for a time, then it called out - ‘thock, thock, thock.’
The sound reverberated within me, and not just from the decibels.
I was greeted upon my return by a flock of red wing blackbirds conspiring in the three trees grouped to the side of our front door. All seemingly eager to twill their sweet melody at once, all confirming their joy in living this day, and all too quickly alighting as if one to spread their message down the lane.