The Sweet, Clear Call of Spring

I stepped out onto the deck early this morning, took a deep breath and looked around. Below me, I could see the snow starting to retreat from the edges by the house, exposing the bare ground. For the first time in months the air held a touch of warmth. The birds were busy, flitting to the feeders and twittering high in the branches. And then I heard it - a long, fluting call, sweet and insistent, echoing across the fields. The cranes are back!

There have been sandhill cranes in the wetland across the road for as long as we've lived here. Every spring they return to build their nests and raise their young off somewhere in the grasses, filling every dawn and dusk with their calls. Soon we'll see them flying overhead to the fields nearby, drifting down and landing, walking along the road with their slow, awkward strides. Later, they'll bring their young to take their first flight. They're our nearest neighbors, cranky and set in their ways. Spring wouldn't be the same without them.

I know most of us are sick of winter by now. I sure am! I've had enough of bitter cold and picking my way across the ice and treacherous driving and endless winter storm warnings. I'm ready for warm days and the heady smell of fresh grass, the sound of bees hurrying by and the squish of mud under my feet.

We cut some forsythia branches a few weeks ago and set them in water on the kitchen table. Soon they were covered in yellow flowers and the scent filled the kitchen with sweetness. A little bit of promise of spring - but it still felt far off in the distance.

All the human signs are starting to pop up, of course. There are seed packages in the stores, and you can always see a few shoppers lingering by the racks. There are lights on in the nurseries, and the weather guy on the local channel is putting cute graphics of robins in his reports.

It's not just empty hope, I think. We've had a few warm days just to hint at more to come. But we're not naive; anyone who lives in a winter climate isn't taken in by a day or two above forty or the artificial timeline of a rack of seeds or a hopeful guy on TV. It's the real signs we watch for every year - robins and bare ground and geese high overhead - and those fluting calls in the distance. Nature knows.

So let's take a break from doom-scrolling and hovering over our phones and step outside. Take a deep breath and look around. Nature is full of promise; it's strong and wise. Underneath our feet the earth is warming and coming alive again.

As I stood there listening, I took a deep breath and smiled. It's really coming: warm days and robins on the lawn, green grass and the first dandelions and seeds pushing their way toward the light. And the sweet, clear calls of our neighbors across the road, back once again, bringing the spring on their wings.