Not everyone is waiting for spring.
Each morning when I go outside to open the chicken coop, I hear the sounds of spring. The turkeys gobble in the creek bottom or here on the ridge. The Canada geese taking off from the pond, in search of food. The chickadees, nuthatches, pine siskins, and a variety of finches sing in the pines as they vie for places at the feeders off the back deck.
The air feels crisp, clean. Five of last year’s fawns wonder about, kicked out now as does prepare for this year’s births. The spotted newborns will be hard to spot, but each year I usually see one of two close to the house. Black bear will be wondering down the ridge at night and across the field in the early morning.
From other parts of the country, people post pictures of apple blossoms, and I find myself green with envy. Late, heavy winter snows still linger in places. My muscles crave the aches that will come from raking thousands of pine needles and cones. My eyes strain at the ground for signs of new growth – buttercups, arrowleaf balsamroot, and lupine in the field; Grandma Duncan’s tulips in the garden, the push of her peonies, poppies, and bleeding hearts through the soil. The deep longing for sun-filled days.
While others post pictures of apple blossoms and newborn farm animals, I wait. I hear the sounds and know the thaw is happening. But it is too slow for me. And I am not patient with this year’s rhythm.
A turkey gobbles down the hill, announcing spring has sprung for him. I stand still, quiet, waiting to hear the response.
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