Robin Practices Spring

Winter has now passed in Maine, though at our place we still have snow here and there, including a respectable snowbank at the end of the driveway.

As a certified bird call fanatic, I listen every spring for the first robin's full song. It was two days ago that I heard it, full volume. But a few days before that, I heard and watched a robin 'practice' the spring call.

It was in the afternoon. I had taken a break from my long hours of desk work, and strolled out to our little farm pond, listening for any signs of the robins' song. And wouldn't you know, a very rotund robin with a bright red breast (perhaps a Canadian robin who wintered down here), sat on the fence rail on the far side of the pond. He or she was all puffed out. The next day we were expecting the last snowfall of the season. I must say I was a little down, wishing for it all to be done and for spring to start.

As I stood still, afraid to frighten it, this little robin started clucking, but at a very quiet volume. The bird seemed like it was practicing all its calls, the warning 'chip chip', some other little cheeps, but very quietly. Then it even started up its full song, but so quiet I could hardly hear it. I kept watching the bird to see if it might be coming from another bird far away, but no. This bird was literally practicing its spring call. Perhaps it, like me, was worried that it would be 'bad luck' to declare it spring just yet. It seemed like it was puffed up with the joy of spring, but was holding it back until the time was right.

This morning, I stepped out near dawn and was overwhelmed with an orchestra of robins in the forests all around. Later, a flock of raucous red-winged blackbirds came through. And the juncoes seem to have left, save a few stragglers. So it's here at last.

Maybe there's a lesson in the practice of spring. Maybe we all need to do it!

Spring Incense

It’s mid-January; not even mid-winter yet; 60 days or so until the official first day of spring. Outside, it’s a bright white world. Sunshine’s brilliant snow glare becomes a magical glow in the moonlight. It’s beautiful, but everything seems still, like we’re stuck in a slack tide.

Take heart, for things are beginning to change. Though this is typically one of the year’s coldest weeks around Boston, we’ve now achieved the 20’s of January. Next it’s sunset at 5pm, followed by the double digits of February, the onset of the short-named months (March vs. February), and then the longed-for double digits of March. Other signs: the first delicate crocus shoots poking out of the snow, and the tiny red tips of peonies that pop up in my south-facing garden. The birds have been silent a while, but by mid-February, if you’re up early enough, you can hear a symphony of optimistic songs, announcing that it’s coming, yes-sir-ee, spring’s coming.

A couple of days ago, my sister in Oregon reported that she found violets in the woods behind her house. At least it’s started somewhere. In fact, this particular call is an annual event, for being my sister, she tracks her springtime too and tries to give me hope that it won’t be long before it arrives here.

I need additional inspiration to get through these first milestones, though, especially in February, which passes like early sap from a maple. I visit places with distinct smells that conjure up fond memories, induce pleasure, and jolt me out of my midwinter doldrums. Some of my favorite smell spots are coffee shops, bakeries in the morning when bread’s in the oven, art supply stores, florists, shoe stores, and libraries (not just any library; old libraries smell sweeter than the new ones).

But the best place of all is Home Depot. It smells alive, like spring, summer, fall, like everything but the dead of winter. I walk through the door one January day and whoosh I’m in a huge, warm, well lit bubble where people are walking purposefully in sneakers like they’re already into their spring projects. Even though three people ask for snow blowers (they are sold out), I am swept away by the smell in the lumber department, the incense of spring. My husband, his parka still zipped up, tells me it’s eau de oak, then leaves me to inhale alone while he goes in search of quarter-inch washers. I savor the perfume of the freshly cut wood, taking deep breaths, trying not to be too obvious. Sparrows twitter and fly around in the rafters . For those ten minutes, I’m convinced that it’s already spring out there, that we better hurry and get going on our projects.

The freezing parking lot jolts me back to reality, but I’m refreshed. I’ve just been to spring and my faith is renewed that it’s coming. I think I’ll go home and listen to my CD of birdsongs. No wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t do that until the First of February.