The heralds of spring are beginning to arrive between the gray and the brown. Canada geese, mallards, and some kinds of gulls have been around, eking out a miserable, cold living all winter, but here it is, March Sixth! One red-winged blackbird ca-ronks, then twees, and shakes out its feathers while perched in the dried rushes. Crows and starlings gather on the ground in the trimmed verge, picking at small stones and gravel. Silently, a rather large flock of loons paddles around and around the centre of the pond. They dive, but I don’t think there are any fish in there. I hope I’m wrong. Next to the paths through the recovering and rehabilitated dump, the dog field is muddy, but not so spongy as it could be. We don’t sink in and disappear. Yet.
We walk the paths through the wavy dead grasses and the small patches of trees. Mice must be awakening, in their little villages under all the wild thatch. The dog stops frequently and listens. They stop, down there among the roots of this endless tangle, and wait for us to move along.
It will snow this week, no doubt. It will rain tomorrow. It will be cold, and colder again soon.
But the red-winged blackbird is here.
Can you feel every living thing unfolding?