Bluejays whistle, starlings cackle and cardinals call for mates. But this morning, I hear a new voice, the lilt of a red-winged blackbird. It cuts through the cacophony like an aria, reminding me of hot summer days and winds rustling through tasseled cornfields.
Snow still blankets much of the yard, but patches of dead grass lie exposed. Soon the gray-whites and faded browns will expire beneath warm spring winds, unable to fend off nature’s voracity to live again. Bright green shoots will emerge from black soil and from tips of brown twigs, to envelop the world in new life.
The smell of new-mown grass will waft through the air, mixed with the fragrance of lilacs. People will shed their fleece skins. They’ll emerge from their homes to walk their dogs or to teach little ones to ride bicycles.
We’ll pause for a moment to take in the scent of the warm earth after the first moments of a rain shower, or to appreciate the heat of a sun that had mocked us on the most frigid winter days, bright and icy.
Battle weary from temperamental furnaces, malfunctioning snow blowers and slippery commutes, we yearn for a change in seasons. We hang up our shovels and stow our parkas, and allow ourselves the possibility of spring, to believe in the blackbird’s song.