The Melding
The calendar says that the first day of spring is
nearly a month away yet. We fix those
dates firmly in the calendar as if by doing so we have some predictable control
of the weather or of life. We tend to
forget that the only thing that is predictable is the positioning of the earth
in its relation to the sun; how that translates to whether we have tulips
peaking up, or stubborn icy snowdrifts in early March is a “wait and see”
proposition.
We even try to control the natural elements by
dragging a drowsy woodchuck, or groundhog out of its burrow to test for
shadows. Of course, no in-the-wild
woodchuck would venture forth from its den the first week of February in
Wisconsin. Since they eat plants there
is nothing to lure them out of hibernation mid-winter. Even if the snowpack is meager, no doubt the
grass will be shriveled and dry, and without taste or much nutrition.
The truth is that each of the four times we turn over
seasons, it is a gradual give and take situation. Three consecutive days of snowmelt can end
suddenly under a foot or more of heavy fresh snowfall. The purple finch can start singing only to
hush once again if the seemingly fickle wind turns from southwest to northeast. The turning of seasons is always a melding
more than a distinct handoff.
I think many look to this melding of winter into
spring as a favorite. My favorite by far is summer to autumn, but I admit that there’s something
to be said for a turning away from silence and into one of building
birdsong. For me it is the redwing
blackbirds that are the true harbingers of spring. I think it is because you never encounter
just one or two – no one claims to have seen just THE first redwing of
spring. That’s because they appear just
like they disappeared late last September – en masse. One day the wetland will be empty, and the
very next morning hundreds of redwings will be seen and heard singing from most every
perch to be had. The males will be
ruffling their feathers as they warn challengers just who is boss of this and
that particular willow brush or brittle cattail. It seems
when the redwings start singing the last crusty snowdrifts and the ice have no
choice but to melt.
There are many signs of spring. The budding pussy willow, skeins of
north-flying geese, the rush of rivers flooded with snowmelt, the swelling of
catkins on the paper birch – all of these and many more are brushstrokes on the
spring canvas. But I’ll be convinced
when the redwings sing.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Uday Mittal on Unsplash
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